#first read along with me so no spoilers please

[acourtofquestions]

What is there to process?

I am who I am, and I've done what I've done.

The fact that I have children doesn't erase that.

I wanted you to listen, but you wouldn't.

Yet now that I fit some sort of acceptably sad female backstory, you're willing to hear me out.

Would you have listened if I had no backstory other than realizing what was right and wanting to fight for it?

Of doing whatever it took to make sure that good prevailed against tyranny?

Or does my being a mother somehow make my choices more palatable to you?

[violentdelightshavevioletends]

"I think I liked you better before you decided that feelings were something we need to discuss."

"Sorry to inconvenience you, but this year the role of Violet Sorrengail"—he points to me—"will be played by Xaden Riorson"—he taps his chest—"who will drag her, kicking and screaming if he has to, into a real relationship with real discussions, because he refuses to lose her again. If I have to evolve, you do, too." He folds his arms across his chest.

"Is he done talking in third person?"

[phantomrose96]

Pikmin 4 is good but the 4th area is twisted and evil and fucked up and bad, actually, cuz they make you have to hurt a dog every time you go there.

[paintedonmyteeth]

Life w/ Mr Crawling!

A QUICK WARNING BEFORE YOU READ: This is following after the Blissful Love Life ending, if you don’t want spoilers I suggest scrolling! — Anyways moving on from that, I FINALLY got the fucking motivation to put something out after how many months, (yay!) Starting off with my new horror game fixation :)))) Finally got my brain juices going, and I thank Homicipher for this. This is probably going to be me posting abt it for a while. BUT it gave me the motivation to write stuff at least. If you also noticed I changed the formatting a little with my hcs and I think I like it better this way w/o the bulleted list, so Imma def keep this.

⭑.ᐟ — Ever since you’ve escaped the other world with Mr. Crawling, you had some small difficulties in getting back in the swing of things. You no longer had to worry about your safety, check over the shoulders for any monsters, you had your normal life back now.

⭑.ᐟ — And this time you had Mr Crawling to share it with! :D

⭑.ᐟ — When you first brought Mr Crawling home with you, man was absolutely ecstatic and he immediately went exploring around the house while you fixed him some food to eat.

⭑.ᐟ — Mr Crawling really liked your place, it felt cozy and warm, it had you too of course, and it was so much more welcoming and nicer in appearance compared to his world. Plus there was a lot of new stuff he hasn’t seen before.

⭑.ᐟ — It was a nice change not having the house to yourself anymore, Mr Crawling made the place a little more lively with his presence, following you around the house like a lost puppy, occasionally asking a few questions.

⭑.ᐟ — You showed him many things, movies, books, and lots of other things. He even had his first shower too!

⭑.ᐟ — You even tried teaching him basic words in your language such as “hello”, “goodbye”, “thank you”, or “please”. While Mr Crawling was having a hard time getting a gist of them, he still tried his best. <3

⭑.ᐟ — With your old life back it also meant you had to pick up your job/college again too.

⭑.ᐟ — Mr Crawling was never fond when you left the house for this long, so he mostly sat around at the front door waiting for your return.

⭑.ᐟ — Then upon your arrival it’s extra cuddles tonight to make up for loss time. He’s sad that you left him alone for this long :((

⭑.ᐟ — On the bright side however he likes going on grocery runs with you! Since nobody else could see him, it wouldn’t bring any unwanted attention. Of course with Mr Crawling’s babbling as he followed you into the aisles, you brought headphones/airpods with you so people didn’t think you were insane for talking to yourself.

⭑.ᐟ — Mr Crawling in general is very happy you let him tag along with you leaving his world, he couldn’t be any happier getting to stay by your side. And his love for you grew as well! :)

⭑.ᐟ — The first time he tried saying something in your language was “I love you” to show his gratitude. Though it sounded a bit butchered for a first attempt, the sentiment still meant a lot to you and it was a step towards somewhere to say the least.

[tryingonametaphor]

Why Will Byers?

An analysis and theory on why Henry/Vecna targeted Will first in season 1 and his plans for Will in season 5

‼️Contains The First Shadow (TFS) spoilers so please proceed with caution.‼️

This is going to be a little long but I’ve tried to give as much context as I can without actually being able to show snippets from the stage play. This is my interpretation of everything that went down as a member of the audience and not as someone who has read up any theories about TFS before. To understand why Henry took Will first in 1983, we have to start with -

Henry and Joyce

From all the times I’ve watched TFS, the one thing that has stuck with me is the final conversation Henry has with Joyce. It’s just before his last confrontation with Patty Newby and before he joins Brenner for good. Joyce is the last person (who doesn’t know about Henry’s powers) that he canonically talks to.

Throughout the entire play Joyce, Hopper, and Bob are investigating the animals dying at the hands of Henry and come to the conclusion that Victor Creel has been the one doing the killing. They get so close to solving the case. In her last conversation with Henry, Joyce tries to comfort him by saying that Victor will pay for his crimes - which makes Henry laugh because she’s so close yet so far from the truth. He gets a little frustrated and says something along the lines of “You don’t get it. But someday you will.” (edit 28/9: the exact dialogue is [Henry: you’re too nice. that is how they’ll get you. you have to learn to do anything you can to protect the ones you love] [Joyce: I don’t understand.] [Henry: You will.]) The next time we see Henry make a reappearance in Joyce’s life is during -

The Vanishing of Will Byers

Will is taken into the Upside Down (UD) by Henry. It’s not even a question anymore. All of the context clues from 1x1 lead us to believe that Will’s kidnapping was not by a demogorgon. Will - a 12 year old - miraculously survives a week in the upside down with no food or water. Will is even around the demogorgon a few times in the Upside Down. (Joyce communicating with Will through the lights and then the demogorgon coming after her immediately).

Barb dies the night she is taken but Will stays alive and also somehow manages to talk to Joyce through the wall. Joyce is led exactly to where Will was held at the end of s1 and he makes it out alive. It’s almost as if Henry knew all along that Joyce was the most capable of never giving up on finding her son. Like Henry took Will Byers because he was Joyce’s son. And like he was giving her just enough to know that Will was alive. Even when Joyce and Hopper find him at the end in a state of near death, he’s not injured by a creature. He was being prepared for the next stage of Vecna’s plan -

The Possession of Will Byers

The origins of Henry’s powers happen as such - As a kid, he is transported into the UD (originally coined Dimension X by the government) for a few hours because he touched something he wasn’t meant to touch. During his time in there, he came in contact with the Mind Flayer (MF). According to TFS this is the point in his life when he started getting “corrupted”. Brenner’s dad - who was one of the first people to enter dimension X - had mutated blood after but no powers. Henry was the first person to come in contact with the MF and it’s highly likely he got his powers because of this (This would also track considering how most of the party has been in the UD now but show no signs of having powers). The MF controls Henry for the rest of TFS and Henry grows more power hungry the more he kills.

In S2, Henry presumably sends the MF after Will - who has now had a year to heal from the events of 1983. Will is the only other person in all of ST to have had direct contact with the MF and survived it. Henry didn’t hesitate to kill Billy in S3, but he always gives everyone just enough to keep Will safe. Will himself tells Owens in S2 that the MF wants to kill everyone except him. Will once again survives the entire ordeal and is given a “break” for the next 2 seasons. Except I don’t believe he’s been just given a break. I think Will is -

Henry’s Sleeper Agent.

Ready to awaken in s5. I undoubtedly think that Will is going to have powers. And I don’t think they’re going to be the same as Henry and El. El and the other lab kids get their powers directly from Henry. Will’s powers will be directly from the MF like Henry. I believe this has been Henry’s plan all along and it’s further affirmed by what he tells Will in the recent VR game. That Will will be the key to Henry being able to infiltrate his friends’ minds. Jamie Campbell-Bower also mentioned during the S4 press that to get in character, he set up a display with all of Henry’s victims and targets’ faces on his wall(?), and Will was in the center.

Henry is going to use his connection with Will sneakily and midway through S5 he’s going to awaken Will’s powers (maybe in ep4 - which is said to be titled ‘Sorcerer’ and has young Will in it). Henry is going to try and manipulate his way into making an ally out of Will, and it’s not going to work because -

Will is the Perfect Character Foil.

Will is everything Henry could have been if he had a better support system. He is the perfect character foil. Unlike Henry, Will has a mother who loves him unconditionally and more importantly, believes him. Unlike Henry, the person who Will loves the most (the Patty to Will’s Henry: Mike) is going to love him back and stay by his side all season. No one is going to force them to be apart the way Henry was told to stay away from Patty. Will is not going to be easily swayed even though Henry has spent years crafting him into the perfect soldier. Sure, Henry has seen him heartbroken and sad, but that comes nowhere near to the amount of love and support Will is going to get from his people next season. And they’re going to quite literally defeat Vecna with the power of love and friendship. After that, Will Byers is getting the happy ending that Henry could have gotten.

[alicesivory]

I was all over her.

pairing: Aemond Targaryen x female! reader

warnings: angst, sad Aemond, minor spoilers from hotd s2 ep 2, 3, and 4, not much smut but MDNI!!

WC: 4517

summary: when the world turned their back on him, she didn’t.

Don't know what I wanted, I have a memory

Throughout Aemond’s life, he remembers how much he wanted to be seen. 

By his father,

by his mother,

by his brother,

by the whole world.

He wasn’t the heir to the throne, he didn’t have a dragon like his brothers or sister. He was weak and nothing. He spend his days being teased and bullied relentlessly by his brother and nephews. They had venomous tongues and big sharp teeth. He hated the way he is.

But when the world turned their back on him, one person remained. 

She was a Tyrell, born not long after his mother gave birth to his youngest brother Daeron. His grandsire and mother are close to her parents since the Tyrells and Hightowers are two houses that are closely related. 

When he first met her back in oldtown, he saw her as a meek and shy young girl. He hated it. Because it reminded him of himself. But his hatred grew when he saw how well she gets along with Aegon, Daeron, even Helaena. Maybe he doesn’t hate her, maybe he just hates how he’s nothing like her. 

Likeable. 

Then it all changed in one summer evening. 

He was reading at the great library of oldtown, away from the world as he read about his great ancestors of old valyria and dragons. Dragons he longed to have. Like Aegon with sunfyre, Helaena with Dreamfyre, even Daeron with Tessarion. Then he heard a thud. 

Looking back from his seat, he saw no one was in the empty library but him. 

When he returned to his book, he heard another thud. 

Shutting the book with frustration, he began to look for the source of the sound that disturbed his peace. Walking deeper between old tall shelves, he took a turn to the left and saw…her.

Younger and smaller than him, but the Tyrell girl grunts as she climbs the bookshelf. Strong but mighty. The way her silly tongue sticks out as she’s so persistent to reach a book at the tallest shelf. He cleared his throat as he looked down, noticing many books had been scattered around the floor for her to climb.

She turned to him with a surprise stare.

“Prince Aemond!” 

As a child, she squeaks like a squirrel

Aemond thought to himself.

“What are you doing up there?” Aemond asks curiously. “I..I’ve been trying to reach that book!” She says as she still tries to reach the book at the highest shelf. 

“You will hurt yourself,” Young Aemond sighs. 

“Can you help me, my prince?” she asks as she jumps down from the shelf. 

“No-“

“Please!”

“Absolutely not-“

“You’re far much taller than me!” She says pointing at his height. 

Even as children, he has always been taller than her. 

Aemond sighs, knowing what he’s about to do. 

And he did it. 

Not for his own pride, but for her.

“Oh thank you!” She thanked him with a smile when he easily reached and took the book she’s looking for. The girl hugged the huge book in her arms. “It wasn’t a big deal, whatever,” Aemond says, acting nonchalant while he dusts off his clothes. “It is though, I wouldn’t have been able to reach that book if you weren’t here!” She says with a bright smile.

Heat rose up to his cheeks. No one ever ‘relied’ on him before. 

“Biarvose,” he muttered under his breath, not wanting her to know. But she heard him and tilted her head with curiosity. “Are you speaking high valyrian? It sounds lovely! Can you teach me?!” She asks cheerfully.

“What, no I’m not-“

“Please! I want to at least learn something new!” The girl says excitedly. Before he could answer, she grabbed his arm and dragged him to their seats in front of the fireplace. “I’m a fast learner, I promise!” She says as she sits down beside him with a smile.

Can’t believe he’s doing this.

But…it felt nice. The way she wanted him to teach her. She could’ve asked Aegon or Daeron…yet she chose him. 

“It’s…”

He mentioned her name. He liked how her name rolled off his tongue.

“…Tyrell, right?”

She nods. 

And since that day, and for the whole summer he taught her high valyrian in the library. Word by word, he was patient to teach her. He hates to admit it but she actually was a fast learner. 

She was his first true friend.

She was the first person who makes him feel like he has a purpose in life. 

Until they took his eye.

Just a year after he knew her, by the time he turned 10 he had claimed Vhagar, the largest and oldest dragon in Westeros. But for a price, which was his eye.

He became the same boy who hated the world. 

Never came back to oldtown or any places except the red keep. Afraid what the world might say about him. How ugly he looked with his scar, one of his eye missing, but most of all he was afraid of what SHE might say about him. Afraid of rejection, how she’ll stop spending time with him.

His thoughts were interrupted when his mother came inside his chambers. Bringing in the young Tyrell. 

“Aemond, she’s here to see you,” Alicent says, in a slight pleading tone. For he has shut himself out from the world when the maester stitched him. It hurts and it will hurt even more if he knew that all that people will see in him was a monster. 

“Go away,” he says coldly, his chair facing away from the door.

“Are you feeling any better?” Her sweet gentle voice asks as Alicent has her arm around the little girl.

Sometimes he just wants to run and hug her for comfort. For she was his escape from this cruel world. Her optimism makes him alive. He didn’t want to lose that.

“I said go away,” his hands gripped the arms of the chair.

“I brought you-,”

“I SAID GO AWAY!” He shrieks, stepping down from his chair and throwing his cup at her direction as he turns around, accidentally showing her his scar. His true self.

Alicent quickly tried to shield the young girl as she screamed. Shielding her from him.

From him.

“Aemond!” Alicent scolded her son. 

Yet his mother’s scolding didn’t matter to him. He saw his friend’s…his only friend terrified expression. He scared her. He hurt her. Just like how the world hurt him.

He took a step back. 

“I…I’m sorry,” he says lowly before returning to his chair.

He wanted to cry. But it hurts if he does.

Then he heard slow and tiny footsteps.

And she…she placed a toy dragon at the table. As her hands tremble. 

“I carved Vhagar for you…father taught me how to carve.”

The young girl says bravely. Yet Aemond wasn’t brave enough to meet her eyes. Not after he hurt her. So he says nothing. 

“Get well soon, my prince,” she curtsied and hurriedly returned to the Queen. Leaving him alone in his cold and empty room. Only the sound of crackling fire filled the room. Aemond loved silence but this time…he hated it. 

So he reached out, taking the wooden figure of his dragon into his hands. And by the time Queen Alicent returned to his chambers, she found her son asleep in his chair.

Holding the little dragon in his hands, close to his chest.

-

Back at that party, I was all over her

The death of Prince Lucerys Velaryon was at his fault and he couldn’t deny it any more. 

Kinslayer. Thats what they call him now.

His betrothal to one of Borris Baratheon’s daughter came to an end once Vhagar snapped her sharp teeth onto Vermax’s body. No one wanted to marry a Kinslayer.

A crippled and a kinslayer. 

What a fucking combo. 

But he firmly believed that everything that has happened to him was meant to be. Because if it weren’t for it, he wouldn’t be shaped as he is now. And he has to be better. Every sword training, every lessons, and at every war..he must be the best.

But that little boy inside of him still clings onto him till this very day.

Especially when his mother mentioned her name.

For he shall now marry her to strengthen the allieagance between their house and the Tyrells. They needed this. And he shall do it for them. 

He convinced himself it wasn’t personal and he doesn’t wish to meet her and just arrange the marriage ceremony. Secretly afraid for what she’ll think of him now.

A kinslayer, a cripple…a monster.

For they have not met again since that very night in his chambers. 

And when he saw her gain at the grand sept for their wedding, may the gods help him. 

She has grown into a woman. Not a young child anymore. 

She smiled to her family, giving them a nervous thin smile. 

Does he makes her nervous?

Does he scare her?

The ceremony was done in the sept. Not a grand wedding like any royal ceremony would be for they are at war and it’s ignorant if they host a grand wedding in the midst at war.

He couldn’t help but to stare how different she is now. How reserved and mature her body language is as she gracefully walks around with her long dress dragging through the cold stones of the sept. She was…beautiful.

“My prince,” she says as she curtsied. Even her voice has changed. Now it felt as if honey were dripping down her tongue.

“My Lady,” he greets back stoically. Not wanting her or anyone to read his mind. 

“How are you, my prince?” she whispers as the ceremony begins. Still making small talk as always, yet he yearns for it. He’s deeply grateful that she still wants to talk to him. Yet it has been awhile since he properly talked to her, it made him nervous. “I am well,” he whispers back. His healthy eye looked into hers as they were pronounced husband and wife. He finds nothing but nostalgia in her eyes. She is just how he remembered her.

-

We didn't make out or do anything

I just remember I was lonely

He didn’t like the idea of a bedding ceremony.

Where people would see him…and her.

It’s unnatural…and unfitting. 

So he ordered for the bedding ceremony not to be done. But he promised that he shall take her that night and they can inspect the bedsheets in the morning.

When he stepped into her chambers, he found her anxiously standing beside the bed. A weird tense atmosphere swept the room. 

“I..,” she wants to speak.

“I would like to say thank you for…not letting the bedding ceremony to happen-“

What is this? Does she not want everyone to see us together?

His anxious mind and overthinking took power over him.

“Who said it was done for you?” He snapped at her as he closed the door. 

Shit. He did it again.

And she was quiet once more.

I scared her again.

“But…still…I still want to thank you…my pr-“

“Husband,” he sternly says walking past her.

“Pardon?” 

He took a jug filled with wine and poured it onto his empty cup. He at least needed a cup of wine if he wanted to bed her right.

“I am your husband now, am I not?” He asks, not looking at her. 

“Oh yes…husband,” she says with a nod, fiddling her skirt.

Aemond turned around and took off his attire and was left with his tunic, yet she just stood there beside the bed, not being able to move. 

She was nervous.

He looked at her, unsure what he should do. Should he comfort her? Should he take her quickly so they didn’t have to endure this pain together? No- no no no he didn’t want to hurt her.

Then he saw her slowly opening her nightgown. Her hands trembling like when he hurt her as a child. She slips her nightgown over his chest-.

It’s been awhile since he saw a woman’s body.

The last time was…..was…

“Stop.”

She curiously looked up to him, only halfway through from being naked. “I-is there something wrong?-.”

“No,” he quickly answered, looking down with shame.

Yes. There is something wrong.

When Aegon took him to that brothel…at the age of 13..he…he couldn’t- it scarred him. 

She’s not like them. She’s not like that whore.

It’s only her, it’s just her!

His mind battling inside his head as he stood at the other side of the bed. He blamed Aegon for ruining something that should be meaningful for a man and woman. Ruining something that should’ve been meaningful for him and her. He blamed the brothel, he blamed his brother, and foremost he blamed himself. 

He can’t bed her.

Not like this.

“We must…do our duty,” he says, trying to mask his insecurity and vulnerability in front of her. Trying to mask the same 13 year old boy who was terrified when he stepped into the brothel for the first time. 

He didn’t dare to look up. He didn’t want to see her being disgusted by hi-

“Yet you don’t want to,” her voice was gentle and kind. Not a hint of mockery at sight. 

“I-“

“I don’t want to do this either.”

He looks up, finding her shielding her chest with her nightgown. That sight aroused him terribly. He wanted to touch her, wanted to make her happy and satisfied. He wanted to make her smile. Yet he saw the same little girl that admired him as a child. He didn’t want to fuck her, he wanted to make love with her. 

But he didn’t know how to.

So he just…stood there. The two of them stood there and said nothing. 

Just as he thought all hope was lost, she puts on her nightgown and stepped away from the bed. 

She’s leaving.

She’s disgusted by me.

“What are you-.”

She took a butter knife and roughly slits her palm, letting blood drip to the bed. 

He stared at her.

“There. They’ll think I lost my maidenhead,” she says with a little smile plastered on her face. “No one will know.”

His eye drifts into her still bleeding palm. He groaned walking towards her, ripping a cloth and wrapped her bleeding palm with it. “Mittys,” he muttered under his breath. She chuckles, “You haven’t taught me that word yet.” 

And for the first time in a lifetime, a genuine amused smirk was plastered across his face. “Stay still,” he ordered, tightening the cloth on her palm. 

When he was done, she gazed up at him for a moment. “How long has it been?” She suddenly asked. “I have not been counting,” Aemond replied, still holding her scarred hand. She slowly then pulled him to bed, sitting down. “You must stay for awhile. Or else they’d be suspicious.” 

Gods be good.

She was too kind for him. 

And he joined her, laying on the bed side by side. He wonders if she’s still afraid of him as their hands brushed against each other. He never realized how much he craved for her touch. Wondering what it feels like to be held by her. Would she be gentle? Or would she push him away? 

“Usōven,” he muttered, looking at her. Apologizing for that night.

She turned her head to look at him. And smiled.

“I forgive you.”

-

I guess I am always, it's not a problem

It's just something, I got used to it

It got worse.

His yearning for her.

He was afraid to touch her, for he did not want to touch her like a whore. She was his equal. He didn’t want to hurt her.

So he lets all of his frustration to Madame Sylvie. He was attached to her even before his wife returned to his life, yet her presence made him worse. With the war…and his guilt for the death of Lucerys…and now the presence of her…it frustrates him. Every single time he fucks that whore, he thinks of her. He imagined that it was her in bed.

Imagined that it was her holding him.

At Least he could keep her safe from him.

He didn’t mean for it to happen. He never meant for it to happen in the first place.

But when he returned from his sins back to his sacred sanctuary, he finds nothing but horror in the keep.

They murdered his nephew. 

Prince Jaehaerys. 

A son for a son.

It was his fault his nephews were dead. 

It was supposed to be him who’s dead. Whose head should be beheaded. Not his nephew. Not anyone. 

After inspecting his chambers, he rushed to his wife’s room. Finding her in bed, holding Helaena and Jaehaera as the three girls cried. He saw how terrified the three of them were, but he noticed how she cradled his sister and his niece. Whispering nothing but reassurance to them. “It’s okay, they’re gone now…you’re both safe,” he heard her. She has always taken care of Helaena and the kids well. 

Noticing his presence, his wife looked up, finding him unable to move from the doorway. She lets go of her grieving sister in law and niece as she walks to him. Her eyes were teary and red. 

Oh how he hates to see her cry.

He looks down at her, cupping her cheek with one hand.

“Where were you?” Her question rang through his ear as her voice cracked on the last word she spoke. Guilt consumed him- no. Guilt starts to eat him slowly but surely. Eating him alive as her wife, her sister, his niece, and his brother grieve for the death of the young innocent prince. He couldn’t say a word, instead hugging his wife tight as she cried into his chest. Sobbing loudly as the castle was filled with darkness. Not a light of hope in sight.

“No one will hurt you. I swear it to you. I’m here..i’m here,” he whispers to his wife as she cried.

He might’ve gotten used to the pain people put on him, but he realized that he would never ever get used to seeing her cry. 

He would never let anyone hurt her.

He would protect her from the cruel world.

Even from himself.

-

Every stranger makes me feel safer

And every person seems more beautiful

“I do regret that business with Luke, I lost my temper that day. I am sorry for it.”

“They used to tease me, y’know? Because I was different.”

He knew he should be seeking comfort from his wife, but he couldn’t. As much as she makes him feel like him…he was still afraid his wife would see right through him. To judge him. So he couldn’t. Not to her. 

He feels safer in the arms of a whore, who has no power over him. While his wife, she had all the power to control him if she could. 

Nights went on and he sneaked out secretly. And no one knew. He was safe. His secret was safe.

Until Aegon…had to ruin everything like he always did.

Humiliating him was always his brother’s hobby.

Blinded with anger, he stomps and storms back to the keep. Wanting his brother and the world to disappear. He wanted to be alone. He hated everything. Yet he didn’t realize that a certain someone was still awake.

Closing Helaena’s bedroom door, lady Tyrell exits the queen’s bedroom for Helaena finds comfort from her sister in law. Just as she wanted to call it a night, she’s standing face to face with no other than her husband.

“Aemond,” she says in surprise.

He froze. He didn’t know what to say. All the rage and humiliation were gone in an instant. His face was covered with guilt and fear. “Wife,” he answered with a hint of anxiety dripping down his tongue.

“Where have you been?” She chuckled, thinking that he was just out for a walk or something. In her mind, she would never ever even think that Aemond would be doing things like that behind her back. 

Aemond stiffened, unable to answer. Before his brother always had to ruin the show.

“Look who it is!” Aegon says as his kingsguard follows behind him. “Your husband here…well, how do I say it..ah yes, was in the whore house, dear sister,” Aegon cackles, nudging Aemond’s arm before earning a hard punch from Aemond. 

He saw red. He saw red in his eyes. He hated his brother. He hates him. He should’ve shut up. He never should’ve brought him to that place in the first place, he should’ve never returned to that place!-

“What..?” His wife’s voice slightly trembled.

Even when Aegon was in pain on the ground, he cackled. Obviously still drunk. “You heard me! He was fucking that whore like a hound!” Aegon continues to say and starts to make howling sounds. 

Aemond saw how she started to grip her nightgown, her hands trembling. Her eyes were teary, not wanting to cry.

He disappointed her.

Disappointing the only person who has faith in him.

“I…I must go…sleep well your grace and….husband,” she says nervously as she curtsied at the two brothers before walking away. 

He watched her walk away. Not daring to chase after her or call out her name. He wouldn’t dare, for he knew he disappointed her deeply. He hurt her again. Like how he did as a child. And now he’s sure she won't come back to him. This was the start of him losing her.

-

She hasn't talked to him since then. What used to be civil and peaceful. Her small talks and smiles weren’t present at his presence. She avoided him at all times. To the point where enough was enough. He couldn’t live like this. He needed her to talk to him. He doesn’t want his marriage to end like his father and his mother. He cares for her…he…he…he loves her.

And when he blinks, he finds himself standing in front of her chamber doors one morning. 

He knocked gently.

“Come in,” he heard her sweet voice that he missed from her room. 

When he enters, he received her sad and surprised expression.

“Husband,” she greeted stoically, looking away.

He then realized how her closet was wide open and empty. Her clothes scattered on the bed as he saw her stuffing her dresses onto her..

“What’s this?!” He protested.

“Mother said it’s not safe for me to be in kings landing. War is coming and…I must go home,” she says in a sad tone.

His heart sank deep hearing her words.

She’s leaving.

She’s leaving him.

“You are not going anywhere,” he insisted, roughly taking dresses out of her hands. 

“Aemond-“

“Not on my sight!-“

“But Aemond-!”

“You are safe here! With me! With Vhagar!” He exclaims roughly, taking out of her dresses from her trunk. 

“Aemond, stop it!”

Yet Aemond does not answer. 

“I will keep you safe. Vhagar will keep you safe, no one will never hurt you-“

“But you did!”

Silence.

Gods, he hated the silence between them.

“You don’t understand,” he grunts as he grips the bedsheets. “How can I understand if you never let me in?!” She protested, tears streaming down from her eyes. He doesn’t even want to look at her. He didn’t want to see her cry.

“See? You wouldn’t even look at me! You wouldn’t touch me, you wouldn’t kiss me, you…,” she points out. 

Aemond sighs in defeat. 

It was all his fault.

But then he roughly took off his eyepatch, towering over her, gripping her wrist as he showed his sapphire eye to her. “And would you? Would you touch this monster, hm? Kiss this husband of yours who’s the reason why two innocent boys are killed? The reason why this war STARTED IN THE FIRST PLACE?!” 

She flinched.

She closed her eyes, scared…waiting for him to do something to her.

It broke him. 

“I…I..forgive me, I..,” Aemond lowers down his voice and hand, releasing her. Now guilt and shame has finally eaten him whole. He hurt her. Again and again. She deserved better. 

Then came a knock on the door.

“Sorry for interrupting, my prince but..the council awaits your presence,” A guard said to him.

“I’ll be there.”

-

Aemond took his time and walked out of her chambers with her as her trunks were carried out from her room. It was present how there’s a gap between them. He wanted to hold her hand terribly, but he couldn’t. Not after what he did to her.

He felt how people were looking. Eyes on them as they walked through the halls of the red keep. He tried one more time to reach his pinky finger to hers but when they touched, she pulled her hand away to rub her other arm. 

He lost her.

He probably never had her in the first place.

When they reached her carriage, he didn’t want to tear his eyes from her. 

“I would, y’know?” She suddenly says with her gentle voice.

“Pardon?”

“I would…kiss and touch you,” she repeats. “The monster you said of…is still my husband. You’re still my husband,” she emphasizes.

Her words touched him somewhere in the deepest parts of his heart that no one has touched before. It made him frozen and unable to move a single muscle or bone in his body.

“I know that I am not what you needed, and I know that I’m nothing to you-.”

She was terribly wrong. How wrong she was. She meant the world to him.

She was…everything to him.

“I hope you will find what you’re looking for in the future.”

He didn’t want anyone but her.

They looked back and saw people watching.

They’re waiting.

They’re watching.

She has always been far much braver than him. So she walked back to him, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek, just beneath his eye patch. Beneath his scar. 

“Geros ilas, my love…avy jorrāelan,” she whispered to him before pulling away and stepping into her carriage without looking back.

And little did Aemond know, that will be the last time he would ever get to see her. 

In his heart, he blamed the world again. 

He blamed his brother.

He blamed everyone and everything that took her away from him.

Maybe in another life, the war wouldn’t have happened, Aegon wouldn’t have took him to the brothel, Lucerys didn’t take his eye, and maybe.. he could hold her like a normal person would. Maybe they’d have children…and maybe…maybe she’d stay. 

But right now, he walks back to the keep to assemble their army. To rook’s rest. To prove his brother and the whole world. To win this war.

For her. 

a/n: Hello everyone! I’m Alice and thank you so much for reading! Fyi I used to write on tumblr but my old account was like semi suspended? Idk I couldn’t interact with people, I couldn’t comment on people’s post so now I’m here and uhh hi🥹I hope you enjoy this one shot and I’m only gonna write fics mainly about the Ewanverse so you’re in for a ride🫶🏻🤗 I’m gonna write more in the future and thank you for sticking around until the end of this fic! Thank you once againnn💞💞

[sh1-n0bu]

✿ 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙛𝙪𝙡 𝙩𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙖 𝙘𝙖𝙩 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙥𝙩2 ✿

characters: penacony men x gn!reader

warnings: fluff, slight angst, poor attempt at comedy, slight spoilers for some character story and 2.2 penacony quest, injury and blood mention

notes: another popular demand! this time with more cat bois!!! part 1 can be found here! tho this can be read as its own part too. genshin boys ver is here!

art credit goes to Flambo_19 on twt!

you just can’t keep yourself away from taking in random strays that are an absolute shit to you huh, [name]?

his breed? orange. that’s it, that’s the breed, what more do you want me to say? jk but he’s still orange. american shorthair orange me thinks. friendly, adaptable, easygoing, playful, good with children and other pets — a perfect american shorthair orange

you first found the poor thing at the streets, hiding under a vehicle, too scared to come out or any approaching humans. sweet cat had a broken limb, holding the dangling paw to his chest as he pathetically meowed

thankfully, you managed to scoop the orange cat up into your arms, wrapped up in your coat before rushing him to the nearest vet

since then, nyanturine has made his progress to be your next addition to an ever growing collection of cats

a strangely crow like cat. nyanturine likes shiny, expensive things. shiny rocks? his. shiny clothes? his. material that glitters? his. expensive earrings and diamonds? his. expensive jewelries? his. everything shiny and expensive that the orange cat lays his eyes upon is his now. pretty please, [name] buy him that earring for him to play with?

out of every cats at home — you sure your home isn’t a daycare for cats? — nyanturine gets along the most with dr.nyatio and occasionally with nyelt. the orange and brown cats can be found chatting away, peacefully settled on the windowsill

not so surprisingly, nyanturine is chatty as every orange cats are, except he needs to get used to the human first before turning into a yapper. with you, it only took a week spent in your arms for nyanturine to get used to your presence

just sit him beside you on the table behind his own mini computer with one of his favorite shiny earrings laid before him while you do your work on your own computer and nyanturine will be chatting your ear off in a storm. though, his yapping sometimes tends to irritate the other cats. dr.nyatio being one of them as you watched the bigger cat jump into the table before smacking nyanturine over the head with his paw

you were pretty sure you witnessed an attempted homicide between cats that day…

surprisingly, nyanturine also likes games! card games, poker, monopoly, uno. don’t ask how but somehow you once got bested by your damn cat when nyanturine placed down +10 on you at uno. you nearly ended up behind bars if it weren’t for meow yuan’s big floofy body holding you down—

he will push all of the tokens in front of him towards the table with a meow. sometimes, you swear you can hear “all in!” in his meows but maybe that’s the ghosts in your home talking

out of every cats you housed and still do till this day, nyanturine has the most unique eyes. cyan blue on the inside fading out into a pinkish hue. when asking about it from the vets, all they could do was shrug and say it could perhaps be a very unique ocular albinism or dna mutation. either way, your cats are a fucking model

nyanturine loves the mini fedora hat you made for him as a joke. wears it nearly everyday, every time, anywhere unless he accidentally knocks it over when zooming around the house

a solid kitty if you can get behind the creepy gloving of his eyes in the dark and his tendency to win against you in every poker games

art credit goes to nasuka_gee on twt!

you first found dr.nyatio by… huh? whatchu mean you didn’t found him? you’re telling me he just waltzed his ass inside your home one day through the window and has been making himself one of the many feline bosses of the house just like that? you sure dr.nyatio isn’t anyone else’s cat? [name]? [name], answer me…

well… whatever floats your boat i guess…

the most sassiest out of all of the fucking cats and that is saying something because you literally have nyan heng and meow yuan

a bengal, me thinks. snow lynx type of marbled tan and brown bengal. a smart piece of shit and he knows it, always yapping your ears off about a certain topic. more specifically, anything to do with algorithm, geometry etc etc

but compared to nyanturine and meowhill, dr.nyatio only ever yaps about those topics and those topics only. oddly enough, he kind of reminds you of one of those annoying lecturers at your old university…

very very curious cat. what’s up there? why are you late? what did you bring? what’s inside your bag? why do you smell so different?

pause.

why do you smell so different, [name]? where have you been? who have you been with? why are you later than usual, [name]? [name] answer him. answer dr.nyatio right now before he loses his shit—

oddly likes bathing time compared to the other cats. though, dr.nyatio is a diva when it cones to taking his baths. the water must be lukewarm, not too full so when he sits in the bathtub, the water will be around his low chest area. the bath must have bubbles and those cute yellow ducks floating around or he will not step inside the bathroom

do you think of him as a low class cat? how dare you, [name]

yeah… safe to say that dr.nyatio spends more money on shampoo, hair treatment than you do

gets along with every cats actually. other than nyanturine. the two tend to scuffle sometimes. and sometimes, you can find dr.nyatio just yapping away to the other cats while he points at… an encyclopedia? since when and where did he drag that out from?

dr.nyatio has an odd hyper fixation and obsession with ancient greek things. anything related to them and the cat is not leaving the site or the front of the screen, patiently watching and listening to the documentary about ancient greek and its architectures and impact in the field of mathematics

once, you decided to bring him along to your local clay making club for shits and giggles, making a mini ionic order pillars and he fucking loved it. loves to sit in the middle of the curved placed pillars and have his pictures taken like a model

dr.nyatio also loves the cute cat helmet like thing you made for him from plastic diy materials. it works as something akin to a mask for him and the bengal loves wearing it whenever you have to step outside with him

once, one of your friends who came over at your home asked you why you named dr.nyatio that way

“is he a doctor or something? what field is his research then?” they asked, unknowingly opening a jar of worms upon themselves. you simply opened up dr.nyatio’s favorite encyclopedia in front of your friend as the bengal cat takes his place, starting to yap up a storm as the cat points to random parts of the book

after a good hour or two, your friend turned to you for help, quietly coming to regret their decision. dr.nyatio didn’t take that kindly, smacking your friend’s face back to focus on him with his soft paw before continuing

yep. doctor veritas nyatio, everyone

“meaw! [name], mrrp ammmeow mrrep mrrya! you will refer to me as doctor and doctor alone!”

art credit goes to Flambo_19 on twt!

a very demanding grey korat breed of cat, mr.meowday is

he isn’t much talkative nor is he much affectionate. but what meowday is, demanding and loves control. you once asked your local vet for advice after months of the grey korat telling you exactly how to make his food, which kibbles to buy etc etc and the vet simply reassured you with a “korat breed of cats tend to be a bit demanding and intelligent. they love to be in charge so don’t worry” and a pat on the back

yeah… you have yourself another demanding cat that loves to make you his human slave alongside dr.nyatio. don’t you think you have enough cats reigning over you in your own home now, [name]?

you adopted the poor thing from a shelter near your workplace when you heard the poor thing constantly crying out. when asking the shelter workers, they said that the cat tends to do that at random hours of the day, just calling out for attention from someone or a certain something

taking pity on the poor lonely korat sitting in the corner of his cage with his back to the world, you decided to adopt him, making yet another dumb decision

really loves sundays for that is one of the days that you have time to spend the whole day at home with the cats. and you also love to dub the last day of the week as ‘lazy day’ and therefore, you decided to name him after it. meowday, he was since then

still, even after months of living with you and the other cats, meowday still sits on the window sling, meowing out for someone or something as he wistfully stares out the window. poor cat… you’re still having some problem trying to understand what was the problem and why meowday would do that so you can at least comfort the poor thing

one day while you were showing your co-workers who loves cats as well of your cats and landed on meowday. seeing the grey, elegant korat, your co-worker asked over and over if that really was your cat

you nodded with a furrowed brows, finding it odd that your co-worker would ask such questions. until they whipped out their phone, scrolling through their gallery before showing you… an eerily similar korat

same shade of eyes, same pose, same elegant manner — you would nearly mistake it for your own cat if it weren’t for the slight shade of white grey of your co-worker’s cat fur

a korat as well. from the same animal shelter you adopted meowday too!

after careful consideration and a lot of talk, you two decided to let the two felines meet on the weekends to see if they are perhaps lost siblings, parents or anything along the lines

finally, the day arrives and your co-worker comes over. a carrying bag slung over their shoulder as they step inside. meowday could barely care for your human companion coming over, it happens all the time and he had grown used to the presence of visitors unlike some of the other cats

until he hears a soft meow that sounded eerily similar to his sister. whipping his head around, meowday nearly broke his paws due to his sudden rough landing from the window sling, practically zooming over before tackling the smaller korat to the floor

sad yet happy meows coming from meowday, grooming the other cats’ face with loud constant meows. you were pretty sure that your co-worker’s cat was meowday’s sibling now

ever since then, the grey korat constantly scratches at your feet, doing his utmost best to silently ask you to let him see his sister again, nearly everyday. please just allow him to see his sister, he had dearly missed her. please, he will be a good kitty! the best kitty in the house!

meowday could barely go a day without glooming if he doesn’t see his sister, and so you and your co-worker arranged a weekly meetings and a video call everyday to allow the siblings to meow to each other through the screen

art credit goes to Flambo_19 on twt!

is it a mini panther? is it a dog? no! it’s just your one of the most chillest cats, gallagnya

he’s a havana brown like nyelt— wait a minute, what do you mean he wasn’t a havan brown like nyelt? you sure you got it correctly? the fur sample? huh…?

“gallagnya is actually a bombay cat. brown bombay” you can hear the vet on the phone, your face immediately going pale at the news of what breed gallagnya truly has been all this time as the said cat stares at you with a “mhm. that’s right” face from the kitchen counter

why? what was the reason you were suddenly going pale you ask? you were so sure that gallagnya was another havana brown like nyelt and has been feeding him nyelt’s kibbles for havana brown. in simpler terms, you’ve been feeding gallagnya the wrong kibbles

very wrong kibbles

but don’t worry, gallagnya is a chill cat and he immediately forgave you with a lick to your forehead the next day you came home crying with a bunch of treats and the correct kibbles for the shaggy, brown cat

gallagnya isn’t exactly a mean cat but he enjoyed the look of jealousy and anger on the other cats’ face as you pampered him day in and out for giving him the wrong kibbles. the bombay cat secretly hoped that you spent a little bit longer without knowing his exact breed so you could pamper him more. eh, oh well

the main reason your vet had a hard time finding out exactly what breed he was is because bombay cats aren’t the most easiest to spot or find out. it’s a bit hard to detect them and their breed since they are a human bred cat breed

but at least you have another big cat! third biggest cat after lion like meow yuan and cheetah like nyepard. safe to say you feel safe as hell whenever you go out for a quick walk with your three big cats

another funny thing about the story between you and gallagnya is that… you genuinely don’t know where the fuck the large cat came from. did he follow you home? did he slip in through the open window one day and made himself home? who knows. not you

at least gallagnya is chill. and nice. gets along well with basically every cat except for mr.meowday— “WOOF!”

“eh, it’s probably just the neighbor’s dog going out for a walk in the hallways of the apartment—“

“WOOF!” before you could finish your little excuse for the barking you just heard, you feel the heavy big body of gallagnya pounce on top of you on the bed, effectively knocking the air out of your lungs

… great. not only do you have hundreds of cats inside your home, three of them being nearly as big as predator wildlife animals, you have to worry about the third biggest cat being a barker rather than a meower

when and where the fuck did gallagnya even learned to bark rather than meow anyways? eh, that’s a question for you to find out next morning. right now, you were too damn tired and your bed was a siren that you willingly gave yourself to

you did not found out the answer to that question the next morning. even the vets were weirded out by it since, although bombay cats are indeed seen as dog-like with their playful and friendly nature, they never cane across one that literally barked like a dog

well… at least you can scare people away with gallagnya’s barks…?

art credit goes to Hanres4 on twt!

the siamese mom in me wants to say that meowhill would be a siamese, but the logical brain in me is shouting TUXEDO CAT

and yes, meowhill is indeed a tuxedo cat. one that just won’t shut up and leave you alone

going to the bathroom? let him come along and get real political while lying on the bathroom rugs while you take a shit

leaving for the convenience store? just let him stay on your shoulder while he yaps your ears off about which seasoning to pick— no, screwubaBOO THE KOREAN SOY SAUCE TASTES BETTER ON BARBECUE!

staying home and trying to type up your work on the computer? you have a free proofreader for you who wouldn’t hesitate to meow your ears off and point at some of the things you wrote. he will even sit on your keyboard

due to his yapper nature, meowhill tends to irritate some of the cats. especially those who love their peace and quiet and staying silent

which is a huge surprise whenever you find the mischievous tuxedo cat constantly beside nyan heng, the poor black manx looking dreadful as he allows meowhill to yap his ears off. you did not wanted to get entangled nor did you go over and wanted to hear what meowhill was yapping about

meowhill also gets along with nyagenti! the two cats seem to share a past together as when you first brought meowhill home, the tuxedo cat went straight first to the elegant norweigan forest cat

ah right, speaking of bringing meowhill in…

you found the poor thing with a rotted paws and bad burn wounds. poor little thing was burnt so badly it was hard to tell the color of his fur and he kept yowling in pain when you wrapped your coat around him to rush him to the nearest vet

sadly, his front two legs were badly broken and injured and had no way of recovering. and so, the vets had no other choice but to put him under anesthetic to cut off his front two legs and replace them with prosthetics

due to the nature of his injuries, meowhill required a lot of your and the other cats’ attention. recovering from losing both of his front legs and the nasty burn wounds is a long journey and meowhill needed the support from his new human friend and fellow felines

after a long and sometimes painful 2 months, meowhill had made a full recovery! the tuxedo cat’s fur grew back and he had gotten used to walking and sprinting on his prosthetic legs. you never realized how much of an energetic cat he was until you broke the news that he made a full recovery

though, like meowday, meowhill has a slight problem of constantly sitting on the window sling and meowing out the window. why? you didn’t know

is very protective of little nyanqing. you can find the tuxedo constantly nagging meow yuan and stealing meow yuan’s little cub away from him. holding the tiny munchkin by his scruff and taking him away to dote on the little cream cat somewhere in the house

it wasn’t until you took the tuxedo cat out for a shopping in the pet essentials store as a congratulations for making full recovery and the tuxedo immediately latched onto a tiny, white kitten plush did you connect the dots

poor thing had a kitten before…

you bought the white kitten plush for him of course. you don’t have the heart to wrench it away from him

making a trip back to where you originally found meowhill, you couldn’t find anything much other than an old, burnt, red scarf. you made an exact same replica of the mini scarf in secret and gave it to meowhill for his birthday gift, wrapping the soft silk around his neck snuggly before wrapping the same scarf around the plushie

ever since then, meowhill has been deathly clingy with you and the plushie. there isn’t a single day or night where you won’t see meowhill without the white plushie, grooming it, cuddling with it and taking it with him by the scruff of the kitten plushie

art credit goes to helen_zzhao on ig!

an elegant norweigan forest cat! is his fur, brown? burgundy? red? no one knows!

nyagenti is such a beautiful cat that he competes with meow yuan in their beauty level whenever you take them out on a walk. everyone wants to pet the elegant kitties and it doesn’t help that meow yuan and nyagenti are both such gentle kitties

gets along with every cats! anyone! your friends that came over for a game night, the sitters when you need to be away for a few days of business trip, the neighbors — everyone! nyagenti has no enemies

out of everyone, nyagenti gets along best with nyelt, nyan heng and meowhill. meowhill and nyagenti used to share a past it seemed as the two cats hit it off right away while the norweigan forest cat got used to the presence of nyan heng and nyelt very quickly

tends to yap sometimes — more like pray to someone or something — but isn’t as bad as meowhill or nyaturine

doesn’t really mind bath times but he prefers grooming more than bath times. he has a beautiful long fur and they’re very dense and thick so it takes the whole day for him to finally become dry so, please let’s just settle on grooming? he can bring over the brushes for you!

a very big gift giver! shiny jewels, pretty leaves that just fell, nice shaped rocks, cockroaches— nope. nuh-uh. you are NOT getting cockroaches as a gift even though the thought is swee— OH MY GOD HE DROPPED THE COCKROACH ON YOUR BED!!!1!1!

yeah… your friend looks at you as if you’ve finally lost your mind when they came over one day and saw hundreds of rat poisons, bug and insect killing sprays just racked on your shelf like you’re gonna sell them. in return you simply deadpanned back and pointed at nyagenti who already had another cockroach in his mouth

how did you ended up having nyagenti? who knows. at this point you gave up on trying to keep track of how, when, where you got your cats from. he probably just made himself known in your house one day and you simply accepted the sign from cat distribution system no.195826592649

such a gentlemanly cat. you joke that he can kiss the back of your hand to the guests and guess what? one day, nyagenti actually did do that. the look on the guest’s face will forever live rent free in your mind

really likes red roses for some reason. thankfully, roses aren’t toxic to cats unlike some other flowers such as lily, daffodil, hyacinths but nyagenti’s love for red roses nearly borderlines on obsession in a sense

when asking the vet if there could be any reason or explanation for this, they simply patted your back, told you that you had a tendency to attract weird cats and shooed you out. not fully, but they lowkey did that and said “roses have a nice scent that tends to attract cats or dogs. they might end up taking a bite from the flower but it isn’t poisonous or toxic, so no need to worry”

still, you’re getting tired of constantly living with red rose petals thrown everywhere in your house. so much so you have gotten used to it and just decided to leave it be. if your friend comes over and sees the rose petals as something romantical, you simply shove nyagenti into their faces

unlike the other cats, nyagenti isn’t the most clingy or affectionate cat. though, that isn’t to say he is cold and distant, he does love you! but he just shows it in small ways and in quiet manners

bringing over his brush for you to help him groom his beautiful thick fur, waking you up gently in the morning with soft meows and gentle licks, even knowing to turn on the AC on a warm temperature after your shower because you always come out shivering

and he is definitely the one who leaves the fresh red roses on your bedside nightstand every morning you wake up

[prettyboykatsuki]

give it to me like you need it, baby | zayne (lnds)

❅ tags ; afab + fem!reader (referred to with she/her several times), established relationship, vague depiction of medical injury, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, fingering, unprotected sex, reader is very spoiled skjdds, 18+

❅ wc ; 5.7k (???????????)

❅ a/n ; i started playing this game 48 hours ago. i am out of my mind. sorry. please no spoilers for now JKSDJD. also shoutout to @acerathia who imbued me with even more zayne brainworms that resulted in this KJDSKJ

this is just porn. no plot like fr at all!! dont think too hard about anything!!!! also sorry if the characterization is inconsistent </3

❅ synopsis ; refusing to take your prescribed pain meds, you suggest a different type of pain relief from zayne to heal your injuries.

“You should be more careful,” 

Zayne’s voice is even. It’s the first thing to greet you when you wake up from your most recent round of medication.  There’s a pleasant clarity that comes with every tone and intonation, that somehow manages to  trample the thick fog in your brain after waking up from your last round of narcotics. 

The pain has settled, from a sharp throb to a dull ache but it’s there. You glance around the room for some way to tell the time. There’s still light out but your limbs feel heavy, so you must’ve been asleep for a while. 

“It’s almost evening,” Zayne says, like he’s reading your mind. He sits at the stool at your side with an expression, eyes softened with worry. “An hour or so till sunset.” 

“Right,” You reply. You wince as you sit up, bruised sides still tender and head heavy. You rub your eyelids, a deep pressure in your skull—just behind them, as you readjust to the remnants of light in the room. “Shit, it hurts.” 

“It’s been enough time between doses, so you’ll need to take them again soon for the pain.” Zayne says. 

Your lips curl instantly, shaking your head. “No way. I don’t want to take them again.” 

Zayne stares at you for a while. “You wouldn’t have to take them at all  had you taken the necessary precautions in the first place so I fear there’s little choice in the matter. The pain will be hard to manage without the medications,” 

“Are you nagging me, Doctor?” 

He shakes his head. “I’m treating you. Your injury is substantial and I don’t want you to do anything to aggravate it. Nor do I want you to suffer needlessly” And then, a little softer. “I don’t like prescribing such a strong dosage either.”

“But you did.” 

“Because my patient is severely injury and I’m worried for her quality of life,” Zayne says, firm but not unkind. “Perhaps if said patient took more care to preserve themselves, I could prescribe something lighter.” 

“Are you holding a grudge against me?” 

“Against your recklessness, yes.” 

You pout unthinkingly. “I’m sorry. Don’t be angry.” 

Zayne reaches his hand towards the corner of your mouth, pressing his thumb into the line of your frown. “I never said I was angry. Just worried. Don’t trouble yourself.” 

“Then who should I trouble?”

Zayne doesn’t reply to you, though he does smile light enough for you to catch sight of it in the dim lights. He goes back into physician mode before you get a chance to say more, and you’re too tired to give him your usual banter.

There’s a beat of silence between you where Zayne is writing something down on pen and paper while you daydream aimlessly. He’s probably documenting your injuries for record keeping in the system. Encountering an anomaly in your line of work is deceptively common but there hadnt been any exact records on anything like your specific incident. Bits and pieces of stray information but that’s all. Nothing cohesive. While it appears to be normal albeit impressive bruising and broken bones, the unit still thought it best to be monitored. 

(That, along with Zaynes general tendency to fuss over your state, mean you’ve been in this position for a few weeks now. Zayne has taken one of his usual work days off just to tend to you.)

Despite the effort you've put into recovering, sustaining a massive injury has made you feel stir crazy and has not gotten rid of the pain entirely - causing you to wince when you move in the wrong way way.  Noticing the way you deflate, Zayne looks up from his papers. He pauses, studying you and the large bruise up your side. 

“Take your medicine”

“Don’t wanna,” You say petulantly, eyes closed. 

Zayne pauses then sighs as you stubbornly turn him away. He weighs his options before  moving on to focus on your injury. You’re conscious of the hand he has underneath your shirt. How delicately he moves, scarred digits touching like you’re porcelain. You don’t think he does it on purpose, or because he underestimates you. Rather, treating you preciously is the easiest manner of being for him. Still, it does make you pout.

“That’s a nasty bruise even for your line of work. Don't be stubborn.” 

You shake your head. 

 “I’m tough. I can take some pain. It’s better than being groggy at least. Feels like my heads been full of cotton for weeks.” 

“You say that because the medication is working. It’s dulling the pain enough for it to be tolerable even though it can feel unpleasant at times. It’s going to worsen again, gradually, if you don’t keep on the dosage schedule.” 

You open your eyes again to look at him. It’s hard to refute his points, even more so when he makes it so obvious his concerns lie solely in your well-being. But you really, really hate the way it’s making you feel. You feel like you’ve been hit by a crr in general but the added sluggishness from narcotics is too much. Enough to be stubborn and childish about even the most sound advice. You shake your head again, trying to think of a solution to appease you both. 

It doesn’t last long since you quickly get lost in another train of thought as a result of your brain fog. 

When your mind catches up with reality,  your eyes flutter open to a worried looking Zayne. Half-conscious, you feel keenly aware of his presence. Of his hands resting on your sides and the heat that lingers when he moves them. His hands are covered in tens of small scars, fingers thick and long while managing to be elegant. A precision to him. To his features, to his movements, to his actions. 

“Something on your mind?” 

“Hm…?” 

His lips quirk. “You’ve got a look about you,” 

“I was just thinking of alternatives on how to manage pain.” 

“Another medication you mean?” 

You shake your head, smiling crookedly. 

“There are different kinds of pain relief, right? Something more… holistic.” 

“Holisitic?” 

Opting to answer his question another way, you let out an exaggerated noise of relief. “Your hand feels nice doc,” 

Zayne, quick on the uptake, hums to himself not showing any reaction.

“Does holistic feel like the appropriate vocabulary for what you’re implying?” 

“Maybe… something more physical.” 

“I see.” He hums. “And how would something that puts strain on your body improve your injury?” 

“Improving my mood is also an important part of recovery.” 

Zayne sighs. “Please be more mindful about my position as your doctor.” 

“You sound like you’re considering it when you don’t reject me outright.”

“Tsk.”  

He sits up from the stool he’d been sat on while tending to you, instead choosing to sit beside you in bed. You’re propped up in a mess of pillows and blankets, pressed close to the wall. There’s more than enough room for Zayne. The bed creaks under his weight as he stretches his legs, back against the headboard. You turn your head to look at him. 

A long silence falls between you, not uncomfortable. Heavy rather, with tension. Zayne, quick to indulge you, brings a hand up to cradle your face. His hand is cool against your hot skin, big palms cupping your cheek. He hums under his breath, hazel-green eyes tracing the outlines of your features. You keen into his palms and he laughs again, deeper. Richer. 

“I’m not against the suggested methods perse,” Zayne says slowly, holding your gaze while his thumb traces your lip. “Only that it may encourage your recklessness, should I give it to you. You’ve been cooped up in here for so long, I suppose needed some more stimulus isn’t far fetched.” 

“I’ll be more mindful.”  You promise, giving him the wettest puppy eyes you can while you nod enthusiastically. 

“I won’t forgive you otherwise.” 

He leans in. Just enough to tease. You frown. 

“Zayne,” 

His eyes meet your again, heating shooting through your spine. 

“Impatient, foolish, reckless. What should I do with a patient like you?” 

“Spoil me.” You reply shamelessly. His lips quirk up. “I take well to bribery.” 

“Is that really the most effective method?” Zayne pretends to ponder.

You nod. “Promise I’ll be on my best behavior, Doctor.” 

“I’ll hold you to it.” Zayne says, tone soft with affection. He holds a hand out for you. “ Come.”

Zayne tells you to move, but bears no intention of making you do so on your own. He wraps an arm around your back carefully - mindful of the tenderness in your ribs and side. He draws you into his lap with ease, your head tucked against his chest with his chin resting atop of your head. Your legs are drawn across his lap lazily, voice reverberating through your tired limbs as he speaks. 

“Comfortable? No pain?” 

You make an affirmative noise to him, cozying up in the way least straining to your body. 

He’s patient as he undresses you from the waist down - and you allow him, basking in the silent attention. In tattered sleepwear and half-sick, you barely move as the fabric rolls and peels all the to your knees - lazily lifting your legs to take them off along with your underwear in one swift go. A wave of embarrassment tugs at you, self-conscious as you nuzzle further into Zayne’s arms. Paradoxically finding comfort in the same person whose making your feverishness burn brighter, you let your hand clench weekly in his shirt. 

Naked, Zayne brings the hand not supporting your back up to your face. He holds your chin between thumb and forefinger and tilts your head towards him - a chaste kiss promising more. Your eyes lock for a heartbeat until you look away, shy. He lets you lean back further, lazier - until he’s at the right angle to hover over you to kiss you all the better. 

Contrary to the other ways he touches you, most times Zayne kisses you is fierce. Once, twice - to ease you into the pace of his mouth before you find your lips pulled open. It’s the only thing that he does this way, needy from the start. Your lips press to his sweetly, a noise of surprise slipping  that Zayne swallows in the next go. His lips are soft and pleasantly cool to the touch. 

Your hands grip tighter trying to find purchase in the overwhelming want of it. Slow and sticky kisses that make the back of your feel fuzzy, the kind that lingers in the minutes you’re parted. His breath is warm, faint with the smell of mint. 

The coy, cool demeanor you took suggesting this, fades—melts every inch of you. Your body goes slack with arousal underneath the assault, his tongue slipping against yours deeper and deeper. He gets breathy when he kisses, a longing sigh as you keen up into his mouth or suck his tongue - your body eager to be as wrapped up in the attention as you can. 

There’s something about this in particular that makes you feel pampered. Tucked away, safely. Zayne is familiar with the act of bending to your whims and your affirmed relationship has only made him more easily compelled. 

His free hand rests just above where your body longs to be touched. Deliberately above the navel, he slides over the softness of your belly. Traveling up slowly, his hand squeezes both sides of your chest. You can’t get enough air to say anything about how good it feels, so you whine instead - canting your hips to air for friction. Zayne laughs softly against your mouth. 

Less turned on, you think you would bicker with him about it. Turn your nose up at him for being so rude. Melted in his arms like lust liquified, you don’t know if you gave it in you. 

Deft fingers tweak your nipples underneath the thin fabric of your shirt. Zayne notices it for the first time touching you. He makes a face, faux disapproval causing his lip to curl.

“Wearing clothes like this with everything so visible. On top of your injury, you’ll get sick.” 

The words carry no weight or bite, playful at best. As if to prove a point, Zayne goes back over your clothes to touch them again. His thumb rubs across your hard nipples, your body shuddering from the rough texture at the fabric alongside Zayne’s fingers. He rubs them carefully, slowly. Pays attention to each one before settling on teasing the side more sensitive to the other. He knows the way to touch you, please  you down to the minutia. It makes you so wet you can hardly stand it. You squeeze your legs together with a frown. 

“I said spoil me. This is torture.” 

Your words are petulant even to your own ears. Zayne barely bites back a smile. 

“I wonder if your words about torture will hold up against your body if I touch you,” He kisses your temple to placate you, a hand at your waist to prove his point. “Patience,” 

“I can’t be patient,” You say, frowning. Zayne gives you an imperceptible look before leaning down, his voice close to your ear. 

“Should I help you then? Tell you how good it’ll feel if you sit through it obediently and allow me to have my way with you, hm? You like the sound of my voice right,” 

You let out a mewl. Zayne laughs. 

“Sit then, and wait for me to take care of you.” Zayne says gently. He kisses the corner of your mouth, trailing his kisses down to your jaw and neck. Bites so softly at the junction of your neck and shoulders, his voice a salve to your pent up lust. “Let me soothe the pain with pleasure.” 

You can’t be sure if it’s mercy or not, that your demands make Zayne more relentless in his fondling of your body. His hand doesn’t go further than your waistband. But they squeeze and grope all where he can reach. Cycling through hot, deep kisses that leave you breathless - toes curling up in fluffy socks unconsciously aching for more—and sweet, loving pecks to encourage you to put up with it a little longer. 

What keeps you tethered is the promise of pleasure, the assurance that Zayne always gives you what you ask for no matter how long or how much he may tease you until he does. It’ll be yours since you wanted it. 

You’ll manage to cum when he feels like it’s right. So you play into it. Beg sweetly in between sighs to touch you. Need you, need your hands, wanna feel even better. 

You like feeling Zayne get impatient, no matter how gradual or how slow. It never loses the thrill. The subtle gestures that his control is slipping away for you so slowly. Always worth the full brunt of your effort when you see his resolve slowly unravel - becoming sloppier in short doses. Sometimes, you get lucky enough to push him far enough and let go completely. 

“Spread your legs,” Zayne pants, desperate to get his hands on you. You do instinctually, gasping as soon as your swollen, throbbing clit brushes so lightly against his middle finger. His fingers are longer than yours - bigger and thicker. He rubs against your slit gently, feeling for how wet you are. It makes a noise as he slides through your folds, fingertip resting at your clit as he gives it a soft stroke. 

“Zayne,” You gasp his name. “Please,” 

No words follow your demand, but Zayne always makes good on his promises. Before you can think to whine again, he finds the spot that brings you pleasure the quickest and rubs soft circles into it. Steady pace paired with a complete understanding of the ins and outs of your body. Your pussy flutters in reply, whole body jolting from the contact. Pleasure seeps into you like the running flow of water, subtle but steady - the heat of your body melting the preciseness of Zayne’s ice. You feel a brief pain in your ribs, but its overwhelmed by the pleasure fizzling through you as Zayne rubs your clit in circular strokes. 

You rut against his hand, aching for more but Zayne keeps pace. 

You wonder how something can feel so different at the hands of someone else. How something you usually do alone and feel alright pleasure from can make you feel like this - like you’re burning from the inside when all he’s using is his hands. 

Zayne, sensing the buildup before you do, presses your mouths together again. He’s gentle this time but you’re desperate, a hand holding onto his face while you get nearer and nearer to cumming.

You know you’re on the edge when your muscles begin to tighten, mind rousing to the rush of dopamine and oxytocin. You pant his name sloppy as your mouth tests the syllables. Over and over and over as Zayne brings you to the peak. He’s quiet, laser focused on where his finger play with your needy pussy. Everything inside of you goes taut before you begin to unravel. Deep waves of rapture wash over you, from head to toe. Your cum spills, flows in thick sticky strands until you’re so wet you can feel it between your thighs and ass.

You take a shuddering breath upon your first release, trying to settle your mind through the aftershocks of powerful orgasm

You barely get a chance to breathe before you feel Zayne’s hand on your waist again. 

“You’ve a few more for me, right?” Zayne says, voice latent with unprecedented lust. You feel something hard pressing against your thighs, making you squirm. “Only once won’t be an effective treatment for a patient in so much pain.” 

You don’t get a chance to recover  your strength before you feel Zayne’s hands come down between your legs. Despite your efforts to run from it, Zayne holds you firm with his arm. Holds you in a way that won’t let you escape from it no matter how much you may try. B

efore you can finish riding your first high - the pads of his fingers find your clit once more. He goes to touch you indirectly, aware of your sensitivity and only heeding so much caution

The lack of direct friction is frustrating. Like he’s deliberately avoiding touching you where exactly you need while still making you feel good, a forceful staccato to an orgasm rather than a direct line to one. It feels good, it does— but it’s not enough. 

It makes you want more. With Zayne, you can’t be sure if its intentional or not. 

Your mind is too cloudy to speak to him, so you whine instead. Zayne has a talent for making you like that. Touching you in a way that renders your speech useless, forces you to lean on what you know. Leaves you nothing to ask him with except your body, your carnality, to get what you want. Everything you could possibly desire is yours if you shed your pride and ask. If you can’t ask, all you need to do is what you’re doing now—spread your legs and let him see just how much of a mess he makes you.  Zayne makes it easy for you. Fucks you in vulnerable, precise measures. He moves with the confidence necessary to wield a scalpel, uses it to take you apart perfectly before mending you to put together. 

No one knows how to build you up again how Zayne does. Who else is paying such close attention?

Your voice comes out shaking when you come around your second consecutive orgasm. The previous grogginess has been completely washed away, taken over by a stronger feeling of euphoria. Cumming again in such rapid succession blindsides you. Your mouth is fallen open. Silent, broken moans sound as the sensations starts to stir again in your core. Your belly is honeyed with lust - the muscles in your calves tensing hard as you thrash your legs around aiming not to lose your mind to the pleasure. Zayne is the only force keeping you upright in his arms and on his lap.

He tsks, half between sympathetic and teasing as you squeeze you thighs around his hand. “Stop squirming. You’ll hurt yourself. If your treatment proves to worsen your injuries and then we’ll have to stop—effective immediately.” 

Your voice comes out so unfamiliar and desperate, you barely know it as yours. “No, no, no don’t stop please, Zayne—”

“Then,” His voice is raspy against your ear, deeperer. Stained with lust. “Hold still and cum.” 

You force your body as still as possible at Zayne’s word. Your hands grip tight onto his shirt, stretching the material out with how hard you grip. You cry out as the knot inside of you untangles and frays.

 Zayne kisses you right as you get to the edge, forcing his tongue deep in your mouth to keep you from biting through your lip. You cum as soon as you feel your tongues touch, kissing deeply. 

You curl up this time in reaction to the gratification, your whole body folding in on itself. You can feel your pussy clench around nothing as you do, aching for something more. Like electricity sparking through the water, your pleasure is constant yet splintering. 

Pin-point accuracy leaves your mind completely muddled in the aftermath. When you manage to look up at Zayne, desire mixed with longing and affection puff up in your chest. It’s the way he looks down at you in the afterglow. Such sharp, intense eyes and strong features. Almost shattered, ruined with a restrained lust. Despite himself, despite being at his mercy, despite being weakened from healing wounds - Zayne holds you gentle. Puts you first even at odds with himself. 

You crane your neck up half tired to kiss him first. It’s nauseatingly gentle but doesn’t do enough to express your feelings. A mix of gratitude and compliance founded in mutual trust. You want to give yourself to him over and over and over - enough to wash away his worries. At the same time, you want him to want you so madly he abandons his usual restraint. 

Ultimately, your mind settles on the desire to make him feel good in whatever way you possibly can. You rub deliberately against the hard-on pressed against your thigh. Mellowed from cumming twice, you speak your thoughts frankly. 

“Fuck me.” 

He shakes his head. “You’ll really aggravate your injuries that way. I’d …. like too but I—” 

“Zayne,” You repeat, serious. “Fuck me, please.” 

He’s silent for a moment, eyes closed. 

“Want you to make me cum again,” You say, then add. “Wanna cum while you’re inside of me.” 

“You—” He takes in a sharp breath. “You can really be so—” 

“Zayne,” 

“Don’t call my name like that,” Zayne says on a sigh, rubbing your lower lip. “I’ve already conceded. Quit your pouting.” 

You smile at him, eyes wet with sincere joy. He lets out a strangled groan, followed by a sigh. “Given your injuries, you being on top would be best as to not cause anymore pain to you. Move gently.” 

“Will you help?” 

Zayne nods at you. “You don’t have to ask.” 

As promised, his touch is gentle as he takes you off his lap. His hands and arms give the necessary support to keep from further agitating your wounds- supporting your spine to ease yourself onto his strong lap with. It’s a wide fit to get your thighs over his lap but Zayne takes precaution.

Zayne pushes you to stand on your knees while you straddle him. He makes you lean on one side of him, your torso resting on one of his shoulders while you’re pressed slightly against the headboard. Uncertain of what he’s doing, you yelp in surprise when you feel his hands slide between your legs. One on your hips, securing you - the other one teasing your slit. 

“It’ll hurt if I put it in right away.” He clarifies. 

“I can take it.”

Zayne is quiet at that, choosing to ignore both your whining and the soft sway of your hips in a poor attempt to get him to fuck you quicker. Meticulously, Zayne slips his fingers into his mouth covering them with saliva first, before drawing them through the mess of slick between your thighs. Making his digits as wet as possible, he rubs your pussy until he finds your tight hole. You can feel your cunt pulse at the contact, taking in a soft breath as he eases the first finger inside of you. They’re thick. Thicker than yours by enough that you can feel some resistance as he works just his middle finger into you slowly. Patiently fucking it in and out until he’s all the way down to knuckle. 

When it’s easy to fuck you on one, he adds another - repeating the process until both fingers fit inside of you easily. The stretch leaves your breath hitching, thighs trembling slightly in anticipation. 

“One more should be—” 

“No,” You say immediately. “It’s enough already.” 

“You know very well it’s not.” 

“I can take it,” You coax, sitting back down properly onto Zayne’s lap, half naked. You rub yourself over the strained fabric of his sweats, wetting them with your own arousal. You’re pleased when you notice his own pre-cum staining them too. “Zayne.” 

Rubbing his temple, he holds you by your hips. You wrap your arms haphazardly around his neck as he casts his eyes towards you. Holding his gaze, you frown—face flush and lips pouty. He sighs, a noise of discontent slipping as his hands reach back and squeeze your ass - drawing you even closer to him. He closes his eyes, forehead resting on your shoulder. 

“What good is it taking such good care of your body as your physician when you’re so quick to throw it away in front of me, hm?” Zayne scolds half-heartedtly. You smile at him sheepishly, your eyes meeting. 

 He gives you a look, silent, encouraging you to take what you need first. 

Your hands are shaky as they reach the front of Zayne’s waistband, tugging until they slide down his thighs - along with his boxers in one smooth motion. Your thighs pressed together at the now familiar sight of his cock. Your thighs weaken at the sight of it, impressive length and girth - curved just right and too heavy to stand on its own. You reach out to touch it, a soft stroke to feel how hard it gets. It makes you gasp, feeling how it throbs between your fingers. Zayne suppresses a groan as your palm smooths over the tip. 

“Have you changed your mind?” 

You shake your head rapidly. Zayne lets out a breathless sigh against your collar bone. 

“Stubborn thing you are.” 

“Zayne,”  You peek at him through your lashes. “Can I?” 

He holds you close to him, careful not to grip you too hard. “Slowly.” 

You nod your head, pulling yourself forward on his lap to line the tip of his cock with your entrance. 

A long, shaky breath leaves your lips as you feel the tip of his cock slip against your folds. Adjusting to be sitting up a little more, you ease yourself down on Zayne’s hard length. You feel your pussy flutter in anticipation of being full. Placing our hands on Zayne’s shoulders, you ever so slowly slide yourself down on his cock. 

You both take a sharp inhale as the head of Zayne’s cock stretches your cunt open wide. Just the head is overwhelming, your thighs trembling as you do your best to take all of him inside of you. Your voice tremble, working yourself down inch by inch - desperately trying to adjust. His cock is big, too big - always more than you remember it being. You feel it up to your throat. 

So focused on taking it, you nearly miss the sounds leaving Zayne’s mouth each time you manage to take a little more of him. His voice is trembling, hot against your skin as he muffles each groan and sigh into your shoulder. His hands are tight with restraint as he holds you, trying his best to hold himself together. 

It takes you a beat or two. Long, restrained moments of silence before your body finally takes it. You moan as you bottom out, cock stretching your needy pussy out completely. You stay like that for even longer, longer than you would normally. 

“Aren’t going to move?” 

You give Zayne a look. “I don’t know if it’s possible.” 

“Spoiled girl.” Zayne tsks. 

Wordlessly, he uses his strength to slide you off of his cock in one go. Whining at the sudden feeling of loss - he fucks you back onto him. Carefully placing his hands on the most unmarred parts of your hips, Zayne fucks you on his cock with the same ease of a toy. 

After a few thrusts, your body adjusts to the feeling. You can feel the specific motion when it goes from a dull ache to a dull feeling of pleasure. Your waist goes completely weak in Zayne’s grasp as he fucks his cock up into you with controlled movements. Undulating just enough to make you gasp. Practiced with the full weight and gravity of his hips - but painstakingly measured so that it doesn’t hurt. It’s not slow, or fast - but a rhythmic inbetween that makes it hard for your mind to keep up.

If there was such a thing as getting fucked perfectly, you think Zayne is fulfilling it by all measures. 

The way he’s fucking the warm, slick heat of your cunt feels good beyond word. It’s relentlessly consistent,  head sliding against your sweet spot with ease. Precision guides his thrusts like it does everything else. Euphoria suffuses through your limbs as you get yourself fucked open on it.

The sound of his echoes in the room as Zayne keeps pace. You’re moaning loud now, shameless as the sensation builds and builds and builds but never quite hits its peak. You feel so full, but you need something else to get yo over the edge. 

“You want to cum like this, didn’t you?” Zayne says, matter-of-fact despite the level of calm in his voice.  His face betrays the composure in his voice. “Touch yourself. Make yourself cum in front of me.” 

Shakily, your hand finds itself between your bodies.You find your swollen clit for the last time and carefully rub between your fingers. It makes you gasp outright, nearly falling forward from the impact. Pleasure no longer plateauing, something bounds again inside of you. 

You can feel it coming this time. On the edge from the minute Zayne started fucking you to now, your body has been winding itself tighter and tighter until a knot formed right in the swell of your belly again. There’s something about this one that feels so much deeper then when you came before, something more overwhelming to it. He fucks you in places you could never reach, makes you cum like that too. 

You throw your head back noisily when you finally match your fingers to Zayne’s throat. 

“Fuck,” You hiss, trying your best not to lose the feeling. “Zayne, g-gonna—” 

Zaynes voice borders on a growl. “Cum for me.” 

One last time, your body finds release as Zayne holds you down on his cock and grinds into your g-spot while you cum again. Your nails dig into Zayne’s shoulders, holding onto him for life as your body wracks with shivers once more. Your last orgasm is the most overwhelming, the aftershocks feel like they last for minutes at a time instead of a seconds. 

Zayne cums quickly after you, panting into your neck like he’d been waiting the entire time for you  to cum first before finishing. You feel content as his seed spills into your pussy for the last time. 

A beat of silence passes between you before you speak again, 

“Thank you for the medicine doc,” You hum. “I feel all better.” 

Zayne simply goes along with you like alwys. “It’s what I’m here for.” 

__

After getting fucked good enough to knock out only a few moments after you came a third time, you aren’t exactly sure where or how you were going to wake up. 

When you do wake up though, your bruised and battered body - while still in dull pain, is being cradled by someone else. You feel clean too. Your clothes are changed and your skin is cool to the touch like someone’s been wiping you down and keeping an eye on you. 

Yawning, you open your eyes to the familiar sight of your partner. Zayne glances down at you without word. You feel his arm around your waist like a secure weight, tucking yourself into him.

Zayne’s first question is predictable. “How are you feeling, love?” 

Your heart flutters clumsily at the overt tenderness. “...Hurts a lot. It’s bearable though.” 

Zayne laughs as he notices your attitude. “What happened the my bold lover from a few hours ago? So bold she invited me to bed without hesitation?” 

Your face feels hot, warmth tingling from your ears down to your neck. “I was doped on a lot of narcotics so somehow… and sex is different from this you know?” 

“This…?” 

“Acting like a proper boyfriend when you’re always so…” You trail off. “Don’t you think that’s unfair?” 

“Are you saying I’m usually an improper boyfriend?” 

“Yes,” You say flatly, though you dont really mean it. Zayne chuckles. “At least you’re less…” 

“Kind? Honest?” 

“Playful,” You reply. Shy, you bury your face in his shirt. “You’re not honest but you’re always kind. You’re in too good of a mood.” 

“Will you be more comfortable if I act as usual?” 

You wrap your arms around his torso, hugging him gently. “This side of you isn’t so bad either.” 

“I’m spoiling my very unruly patient.” He hums. He leans down, a hand cradling the back of your head as he presses a kiss to your forehead. “So listen well to doctors orders and rest a bit longer. We’ll have dinner together in a bit so just rest.” 

As if caught by a spell, the mention of rest against has your eyes feeling heavy. You nod without thinking about it. 

“Hm… ‘kay,” You mumble. “Thank you… for taking care of me….” 

Zayne waits a beat or two before pressing another kiss to your temple, waiting for your breathing to even before he speaks. 

“As if it’s something to thank me for,” 

[pedgito]

𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄 | Joel Miller x reader x Tommy Miller

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summary | twisted into the miller brothers web, you find yourself deeply entangled in a complicated situation between the two and hell bent on self-preservation, you discover that running isn't always the best choice.

author's note | i was going to get this out before the end of the year if it was the last thing i did. i have never been so fully engulfed in a fic like this. it's just a little mini series, but i could talk about this shit for hours. thank you to everyone who's listened to my incoherent rambling and especially @gracieheartspedro who nailed down this ending when i was struggling so hard to decide. if you enjoy this silly story as much as me, ily.

content warning | 18+ smut, this is heavily joel miller x reader leaning, cannibalism, gore, mentions of violence, blood, death, joel's territorial <3, lots of unprotected sex going on 'round here, oral (f receiving), pain kink go hard, blood kink and consumption, biting kink, literal love as consumption, restraints, description of wounds from said bites, scarring, omitting a few tags for spoilers but please remember you are responsible for the work you consume, if you are ever feeling uncomfortable, do not continue reading. this is dark fic. that's the only warning i'm giving.

word count —13k, BITTER (part one)

“Killin’ is a viable option.”

Tommy groans, hand rubbing over his face as he leans against the kitchen counter, “They aren’t backwoods folk, Joel. You know that, we gotta be smart.”

“All they gotta do is get the law involved,” Joel points out, “fancy lawyers—“

“We’re selling to half that department,” Tommy argues, a long moment of silence before he adds, “and if you’d stop interrupting I’d tell you I already spoke to ‘em. Said I’d run it by you first before we set anything in stone.”

The big brother seal of approval.

You watch along curiously, stuck in the chair that Joel had a hand gripped around, sandwiched between them both as they volleyed arguments back and forth like they were fighting gladiators shoved in the colosseum—may the best man win.

“I still think we should just kill ‘em,” Joel chirps with finality, glancing briefly over your dumbstruck look, frozen somewhere between fear and shock, their voices fading in and out like muffled conversation, “make sure no one’ll come askin’ questions. Easy. You ain’t never had an issue with it before.”

The letter was still clutched in Tommy’s hand, a list of vague threats and accusations—the weird occurrences around the Miller property, the strange behavior of Tommy’s older brother, the smell. There wasn’t hard evidence, but they weren’t wrong either. A few minutes grazing the property and a look in the barn would confirm anyone’s suspicions—which, speaking of…

“Are you going to kill me now?”

 It was a brave thing to interject with, given Joel’s current hostility around the situation with their nosey neighbors and you, like a pest making a mess of his home. But, instead it was him. His mind—a foreign feeling that he didn’t like or intent to allow to wreak havoc much longer.

He’d kill you if he had to, if that was what it took.

Unsurprisingly, they both ignore you.

“Let me talk to ‘em tomorrow, Joel,” Tommy barters, “see if I can smooth things over.”

“Ya ain’t smoothin’ shit over, we know how this goes—you lose your temper and then we have a mess. Just take care of the fucking problem like I suggested.”

You knew the house, it was the only one within walking distance. Far off, covered by a line of trees and eclectic decor—you never thought much of it, under the impression that everyone in this town was as demented as the Miller brothers, most of the suspicions confirmed as the brothers continued to argue. 

It was an open secret—deranged and fucked-up, but there was full, completely loyalty.

If you had gone digging enough, you would have found out yourself. But, Joel wanted you to know. It takes a killer to know a killer—the wood of the chair cracks behind you as his grip tightens.

“We aren’t gonna hurt you,” Tommy comforts suddenly, a quick glance over of your injuries, “not intentionally, at least—”

“She fell,” Joel explains, a half-truth, “made a damn mess and wasted the scraps for the pigs—”

“Joel,” Tommy warns, returning his gaze to you, “You’ve been good to us, better than most. We can trust each other, alright? Ain’t no reason to think otherwise.”

He was sickeningly sweet, laying it on so thick you see right through the facade. He was upset, rightfully so, but you weren’t sure how much of it was directed at Joel and how much of it was directed at you.

“When did I surpass being a meal?” You turn your attention toward Tommy, flicking your eyes up briefly at Joel, “Was it before or after you fucked me?”

You expect it to be newfound information to Joel, but he doesn’t react in the slightest. He almost smirks, actually. A sudden, miniscule response that you wouldn’t have caught if you weren’t so on edge.

“Now, darlin’—”

“Cut the shit, Tommy,” You retort, “When did it happen?”

“Still a chance, if you’re feelin’ persistent,” Joel taunts.

Tommy shoots Joel a dangerous glare before his face softens.

“The thought never occurred to me,” Tommy replies though you find it hard to believe him, “M’not sayin’ we’ve been this kind to everyone, but with you—s’different. Right, Joel?”

“Well, she does like the taste,” He grins viciously, a showing of teeth that sends your body into a full chill, “ate it right up, loved it.”

Your eyes shoot daggers in his direction and he shrugs, his tongue shoved into his cheek as he moves to stand, turning in a circle on his heels as he leans against the nearest surface.

“I mean it, you’re safe with us,” Tommy assures, “out there—we can’t protect you. And if you think we’re the monsters, you’re in for a rude awakenin’, baby.”

“Don’t,” You chuffle, a short laugh through your nose, “I’ll—I’ll stay, but this,” You wave your finger between him and you, before it circles the group, a discoordinated trio, “I don’t trust either of you and don’t call me that. Don’t call me anything, actually.”

Your anger was justified and Tommy didn’t try to argue, only sinking back in his chair with an ‘I told you so’ look on Joel’s face. Luckily, they leave you to gather yourself, ignoring the subtle sting from the wounds on your legs and your spiraling thoughts—you could wait until nightfall.

That was it—wait long enough until it was dark and they were both asleep and make a run for the only sane people in the nearest vicinity. They could help you and help take the two brothers down in the process, it was a fair victory for the opposing party and your only saving grace.

–

They retire to their rooms eventually, the insistent chirp of crickets keeping you awake, standing on sore legs as you move around the dark room and pulling on a warm pair of clothes to trek against the nighttime winds. 

You were careful, prying open doors with a quiet effort and allowing the softest steps against the old floorboard as you reached the door, immediately met with the deadbolt lock and an even heftier lock to keep you trapped–or to Tommy, safe. The house was silent aside from the sounds of nature, the occasional howling wind blowing through but you looked around, searching for another path—you had already made it this far, you weren’t going to go scrambling back.

If anything, the backdoor would have the same locks and your eyes scan the windows, closed shut but not inescapable. If either of them decided to wake, they would surely know. 

There was no time to deliberate or weigh the consequences, hurrying toward the living room window that led toward the yard, pulling it up with forceful but cautious precision, ripping at the screen.

It isn’t an easy feat, not nearly the path you would have chose, but you fell to the ground with a deft slump, careful of your fresh bandages and gravel under your hands as you land, wincing as you stand but peering inside of the house cautiously, determining if you needed to make a run for it.

Silence meets you. Dead silence.

The eerie feeling in the distance creeps in, eyeing the house over your shoulder that is still lowly lit but quite the walk, you turn on your heels and make the long walk there, wondering if darting off down the road would be simpler, continuing until you came upon another sign of civilization or normality, anything to save you.

As you grow closer, the muffled melodic tunes coming from the house start to drown out your stream of thoughts, the bass booming from the driveway as you grow closer. You careful approach the steps to their door, pressing a finger into the doorbell as it chimes throughout the house—the music lowers in an instant, quiet enough that you could hear a pin drop, the door ripping open with a forceful gust of air, meet with the fierce scowl of an older gentleman.

It was hard to describe him, but there was so much going on—a peek at the inner house decor that screamed for a touch of neutralness, a mix of beaded necklaces hanging around his neck over a stretched out tank, barefoot as he approached you on the mat at his door.

It only dawns on you now that you hadn’t prepared anything—you were drawing a complete blank.

“You better start talking,” He speaks, a grittiness to his voice that stills you at your core, “botherin’ us in the middle of the night—”

“You’re right,” You blurt out, shaking your head slightly as you realize how abrasive it was, taking a breath before you speak slower, “about Joel and Tommy, you’re right. They’re bad people.”

His expression turns steely, jaw tightening as he straightens his back in an intimidating manner. You couldn’t mistake the whiff of alcohol on his breath, his drifting eyes down the length of your body, slowly realizing that this might have been a mistake.

Self-preservation had always come first, even if you didn’t think the Miller’s were the worst possible people you could have come across, they were unfortunate targets in the moment. 

“They—they are killing,” You point vaguely in the direction of the house, “it’s—the smell, it’s the bodies. They’re murders, you have to help me,” It comes out in a panic and you stutter as the confession rolls off your tongue, his expression only growing dark as time passes.

Fuck, he didn’t believe you. Of course—who would? 

Hey, you’ve got a couple cannibals for neighbors—let’s deal with them.

It was never that easy.

“You don’t think I know?” He responds, stepping into your space to send you stumbling backwards, but his arms lock around your biceps and keep you upright, but not for the reason he should, feeling the sting of pain as he squeezes down hard.

You gasp at the suddenness of it, “N—no, no! You have to believe me!”

“I’ve seen you helpin’ them,” He nods vaguely, “Think I’m gonna believe this shit? Where are they, huh?” The spit from his vicious reaction and volume sprays against your face as he shoves you to the ground, your arms skidding against the cement as you scramble backwards, trying to flee his quickly approaching figure, “They use you as bait?”

He’s over you before you have a chance to roll out of the way, your forearm presses up against his neck as he leers, glancing around for any sign of the brothers—silently praying that he was right in the moment, but you knew there was no one to help. Just you. Just him.

He forces you onto your stomach as your face was smashed into the rock path along the driveway, “Well, good—they can watch,” It makes your blood run cold, sensing the exact implication of his words as you calmly and slyly wrap your fingers around a palm sized rock, curling it in your fist as he leans back on his legs, twisting in his grip and bashing the rock blindly at his face, a grunt releasing from him as you make contact with his skull, falling to the ground with a dead weight as you scramble away breathless.

You stare at the sight, a man near death on his lawn before the whistle fades in—low and melodic as it approaches with the sound of heavy boots and speaking before you can react.

“Well, look at that,” Joel looks on in admiration, a small suspicion of amusement in his tone as he steps onto the lawn and peers over you, hand extended out blindly for help as he cautiously steps around the pooling blood of the now dead man, “little messier than I like, but you got the job done.”

If looks could kill—you’re seething, staring up at Joel with narrowed eyes as you take his hand and stand.

“I’ll give you some credit,” Joel continues, “You’re resourceful but predictable—suppose you can’t trust anyone in this town anymore, can you?”

He’s cocky about it, which pisses you off more. Undoubtedly, he was probably watching you the entire time, waiting in the shadows, undetectable. He’s mastered his craft, he killed people for a living. It wasn’t a mystery how he knew or expected your retaliation. But, his reaction is jarring.

“C’mon, up,” He yanks at your hand and helps you upright, instinctually brushing the clumps of grass and dirt out of your hair with a pinched expression as your eyes slowly drag toward the motion, unmoving out of…not fear. It was something indescribable, flinching at the heat of his hands as his eyes gradually rose toward the upstairs window.

“You know what happens next, right?” Joel asks, kicking at the dead body to roll him on his back, staring down at the lifeless corpse.

You didn’t need the whole speech—murder me now, please. Spare me the misery.

“Alright, alright,” Joel sighs, almost like he’s carrying on a conversation with himself—and with your silence, he was. But, he senses your fear, “well—you can’t just murder one and not the other, you little killer. You’re gonna take care of the other one, too.”

“Joel—I—” The adrenaline rush was waning, the bile in your stomach swimming and swirling.

His face hardens in an instant, forcing his hand over your mouth with a stern shake of his head as your eyes grow wide, “Ain’t time for excuses.  You made this mess—you’re gonna finish it.”

You blink slowly, searching for any sign of a bluff. It never comes, in fact, his grip only grows tighter until you answer, shakily nodding your head.

“Go on,” He urges, “I’m right behind you.”

He’d have a front row seat this time instead of waiting in the wings. 

Joel wanted a full taste.

–

The wife is tucked into bed when you finally find her, barricaded in her sheets and sleeping soundly despite the loud, blaring music when you first approach the house—you figured it was a regular occurrence, but you don’t linger on the thought long. 

You hold onto the thought of the husband and his unwillingness to hear you out, how they seemed to already have you figured out, wrapped up in the Miller’s web and just another willing accomplice, repeating the same careful steps from earlier that had clearly failed you as Joel breathed over your shoulder.

It needed to be quick—not entirely painless, but clean.

The vase to the left of her head seemed like an emergency option, the woman splayed out on her back as you searched around, knowing that you didn’t have long with Joel’s looming presence. You chew at your bottom lip as you reach carefully for the pillow beside her head and slowly press it over her face, a few seconds of calm before you find yourself in a predicament.

Climbing over her lap, you mount and press the weight of your palms into the pillow, face scrunched in concentration as the woman flails and shakes against the movement, grunting meekly as your hand slips against the scratch of her nails, glaring at Joel for a silent plea of help, realizing that she was putting up far more of a fight then either of you expected.

He waits until the last possible second, an unreadable expression on his face before he’s flipping the switchblade out of his pocket and piercing it through her clavicle, the blood squirting on your chest and face, rearing back instinctually as you gasp, her body falling lifeless in an instant.

“I can appreciate the effort,” Joel comments, wiping the blade off on the sleeve of your shirt before he pockets it again, “how’d that feel?”

You don’t realize your heart is racing until he asks the question—it was a similar feeling to a drug-induced high, slightly floaty and off-balance, your mind hazy as you blink, the stench of iron filling your senses and that strange look on Joel’s face returns.

You understand it then—lust, another subtle hint as he licks at his bottom lip out of reflex.

Joel would lick you clean if you let him.

You clear your throat and speak quietly, “What—what do we do?”

“Well, we gotta transfer ‘em to the house,” Joel explains, “So, you’ll stay here and wait—not run, that clear?”

You nod mindlessly, towering over your second dead body of the night.

You were far too deep now.

You don’t move—not really. You sink to the sheets beside the woman’s body but you listen dutifully, ears perking up at the roar of an approaching truck and door slamming followed by footsteps before Joel reappears again, seemingly breathing out a sigh of subtle relief as he spots you.

He’d never admit it, but you can see it.

It take a while, but eventually you carry both bodies into the bed of the truck and cover them with tarp, questioning Joel on what happens with the house, the evidence, everything that could essentially criminalize both of you—

“That’s above my paygrade, honey,” You’re not amiss to the change in his voice, his expression more relaxed as he shifts the truck into gear, “the sheriff handles all that for us.”

“And…the sheriff…he—”

Joel chuckles, “It’s everyone. Not just a group of us. We aren’t just sellin’ to townsfolk, either. It’s overseas, across the country. Shit is high risk, high reward. Why do you think I followed you tonight?”

So, he did follow you—he’d known the entire time.

“I saw the idea pop into your head earlier while Tommy and I were arguin’. Like I said, predictable. I’m not sayin’ you didn’t have a fair reaction, I get it. But, we can keep you safe.”

You cross your arms over your chest silently, skin and face caked with blood.

“But will you?” You retort, “Can I really trust you both?”

As the truck pulls in near the barn, the ignition falls silent.

“I want to,” Joel admits, “natural ability like that shouldn’t be wasted.”

A natural-born killer, he means.

“You feelin’ guilty right now?” Joel asks, eyebrows raised.

You shake your head quietly, avoiding his gaze.

“Good, keep it that way.”

Joel works silently to unload the bodies and load them in the barn as you sit quietly in the passenger seat, staring at the barn door as he drags tarp covered corpses inside with a brute strength unlike his brother, somehow spotless throughout the entire ordeal.

“I’ll move the truck in the morning,” Joel tells you as he pulls your door open, a hand waiting in assistance as you climb out on unsteady feet, the ache of your wounds coming back in waves as reality sets in.

“It is morning,” You retort, earning a huff of annoyance from Joel.

“You know what the fuck I meant,” He responds, his thumb flicking at a flake of dried blood on your collarbone as you stand in front of him, “Tommy’ll get pissy if you wash the blood off in the main bathroom—I’ll let you use mine.”

Your face contorts in a mix of confusion and amusement.

“Or I can hose you down out here, your choice.”

–

The house is as quiet as you left it, guided silently with the touch of Joel’s hand between your shoulder blades as you traversed the dark house—and you aren’t sure what you were expecting as you enter Joel’s bedroom, but it wasn’t this.

It was lived-in, personal; full of books and random trinkets, pictures lining the top of his dresser and walls—his family, you can only assume. A few pictures of kids that you surmise are Joel and Tommy, you avoid Joel’s gaze as you look around aimlessly, clearing your throat as you approach the bathroom, hearing the light flick on beside your head.

It was clean, at least. A dark colored shower curtain hiding the tub away from view and his bathroom amenities only slightly astray, probably from previous use that night. 

You turn to him with a quizzical expression, his expression matching.

“What? Somethin’ wrong?” He asks.

“It’s just—it’s…clean. It doesn’t—it doesn’t fit you, I guess.”

“I’m just a dirty old man to you, ain’t I?”

It’s a joke, but his delivery falls flat.

“I’m confused, I guess.” You tell him honestly, “Look at me—” A vague gesture at your own disheveled state, dirt and blood smeared on your face as he tilts his head against the doorframe.

“I am,” The deep timber to his voice strikes you at your core, a casual but unsuspecting answer, “I cleaned up for the night, wasn’t plannin’ on getting dirty again.”

“But, you’re always dirty.”

His job required that—but Joel was meticulous about his routine after he was done for the day. Dinner, a thorough shower, sometimes another if he was feeling particularly bothered, and the quiet of the calm house to lull him to sleep.

Unfortunately, that routine has been disrupted since you arrived. 

Like an infestation, you’d taken over.

Joel ignores you with a half-assed shrug and flicks a dried speck of blood from your nose.

“Go on,” He demands, “I’ll grab you some clothes and fresh bandages.”

You clear your throat awkwardly and nod as you gently swat his hand away, avoiding his gaze as you press the door closed enough that it doesn’t lock, but allows you the privacy to undress.

It feels good to clean the blood and grime away, scrubbing at your body until it burns, bathing in the distinct smell of Joel’s body wash, a faint hint of it always wafting off of him despite his usually dirtied state.

You can hear him moving quietly beyond the curtain, his shadow passing a few times as you’re expecting him to fold against the urge to peek his head beyond the curtain—something, anything.

You hated the forced gentlemanly facade. 

Once you’re out of the shower and dressed in clothes Joel had picked out, a matching set and a fresh pair of underwear that had you glancing sideways at him as his fingers peeked around the bathroom door with a bottle of rubbing alcohol and fresh bandages in his hands.

He kneels quietly with a concentrated expression, mirroring his actions from before. Wincing through the sting of pain as he cleans and dresses your wounds, catching his glances as the noises slip beyond your lips—an inconspicuous check-in, wordless.

You can’t help but fuck with him now, defenses down.

His eyes follow the way your hand smooths over the waistband of your shorts, your thumb slipping beyond the thick band as you lean against the mirror, watching as he taped down the gauze, “Kinda defeats the purpose, don’t it?”

“What’re ya gettin’ at?”

“The whole—bet you can’t guess what color underwear I’m wearing joke,” You play quietly with the waistband, fingers twirling in the drawstrings below your navel as your thighs spread against his guidance, his hand sliding down to your ankle to raise your leg higher in an effort to secure the bandage, “I see you wanted them to match,” You jest at him lightly, noticing the way his eyes immediately lock onto the apex of your thighs.

He brushes it off, a roll of his eyes as he finishes up his job, carefully piling up the trash on the floor as you slowly slide off the bathroom counter, leaving his head level with your waist. 

Had you asked yourself if you wanted to be this close to him twelve hours ago, the answer would have been different, but the downright pathetic look on his face as his eyes drag up your body and eventually land on your face are a powerful spell.

Slowly, your hands drift into his hair—surprisingly soft as the curls sway with your movement, gripping the hair tight and pushing his head back in the process, a low rumble in his throat at the action.

“Do you like that?” You inquire, his eyes darkening at the question as he sets his sight on something he wants—a primal gaze, almost like a warning.

“You tryin’ to make my brother jealous?” He asks, “Think I should tell him about your plan to rat us out—how it didn’t work and now you’re tryin’ this—”

“I can’t leave now,” You admit, still not fully settled with the idea but deep down you knew, “I—I do feel safe, you know. With you—”

You exhale shakily as his lips press against the sliver of skin beneath your shirt, just below your navel as his eyes fall shut, his tongue following the path as he presses surprisingly gentle kisses into the skin before his fingers are curling over the band of your shorts.

“Don’t trust me, though—do you?” Joel asks snarkily, eyes peeking open slightly as your lips part in a soft gasp as he pulls the clothing down your hips, peeling the underwear down with it.

One hand drags up your calf, calloused hands against soft skin as he pulls one knee over his shoulder and shoves your shirt upwards, giving him an obscured view of your cunt, lips spreading open with the movement and glistening with slick despite how much you tried to loathe him—there was a racing in your heart that differed from Tommy, like you know you shouldn’t be doing this but your body was demanding otherwise.

You shake your head lazily as it drops back, slumping against the medicine cabinet as he drags a finger through your folds, toying with your clit in small movements, silent as he drinks in every small sound you make, your opposite hand digging into the counter of the sink as his fingers dig into your thigh, opening your eyes as he presses his lips to your cunt, right against the mound and into the short, coarse patch of hair before he’s spreading his tongue out flat against you and licking a slow, tortuous line up the seam.

“Trust–trust is earned,” You reply breathily, “It, fuck—it takes time.”

Joel hums a response of approval as his nose nudges against your clit, tongue dipping inside of your hole as he stared up at you, even at this angle you could see the smug smirk on his face as he drank you in—Joel was still a frightful man, enough unknown that you found yourself wondering if the choices you were making were correct, if somehow this would cost you your life in the end.

But, then he’s pulling away, dragging his finger up the seam of your pussy as he stands, unbuckling his belt quietly as you strip your shirt away, not needing to be told or guided, his tanned skin flushed a subtle red as he unbuttons and parts his flannel, adjusting his jeans and underwear down just far enough under his balls that they sit snug against the fabric, his cock intimidatingly large against his even larger hands.

So much with Joel is unspoken, his intensity held in his gaze. Even from your first meeting, there was a look—and even now, he’s got that look. Like he’s trying to decipher you.

He flattens one hand against the bathroom counter as you spread your legs to accommodate him, his other hand grabbing at your ass to pull you near the edge before he’s running his hand down his shaft, the foreskin swallowing up the red, angered tip of his cock before he’s pulling back and rubbing his cock through your folds, gathering the wetness there and pressing inside with a pinched expression on your face, your breath catching as your hand twists into his shirt.

“That hurt?” He asks, his voice taking on a softer tone.

You nod fervently, “Yeah—yeah, it’s—you’re…pretty big,”

You weren’t trying to actively compare the brothers, but the thought passes in your mind and Joel notices the thoughtful look on your face, huffing out a laugh under his breath.

“Good,” That it hurts—he wanted you to feel it tomorrow, that it would be a constant reminder.

He’s a natural masochist, but he wasn’t about not enjoying sex. So, while he savors the soft hiss of pain at first, the dig of your nails into his chest, eventually you relax and turn to curling yourself around him, legs tight around his hips and your arms slung over his shoulders as he presses his forehead into your own and fucks you with a slow, powerful force of thrusts that make the walls shake—surely it would wake his brother, maybe that was what he wanted.

His mouth parted slightly, panting out hot against your skin as he glares at you—into you, through you, your eyes fluttering open and shut as he follows your trailing gaze, the precipice of your pleasure clawing over the edge of their metaphorical walls.

“Yeah, s’right there—isn’t it?” He taunts, a half smirk on his face as he watches you.

Always watching you.

You nod again, feeling the hand that was squeezing at your thigh digging into your skin as he used it for leverage, thrusting into you while he guided your hips toward him, using your body like he had full control over it. His other hand finds your breasts, squeezing the flesh in his hand before he’s rubbing his thumb over the quickly hardening bud, a shiver running down your spine.

There was nowhere to hide with Joel, all imperfections on display as your head lulls back against the mirror, eyes opening to find him matching your expression—somewhat sated but nearing the edge of his own release, he nudges his chin up and speaks, “S’this what gets you off?”

Your brow furrows as you tilt your head, his hand trading your breast for the hand twisted into his shirt, guiding it toward your clit as he gives you a silent order, your fingers circling the sensitive nub.

“Fuckin’ both of us—s’gonna be a hell of an issue when he finds out, you know.”

“Is this what you like—huh, talking about while you fuck?” You counter, “Your brother?”

His jaw shakes slightly as he gaze dips, admiring the way your cunt swallowed him up, his fingers wrapped around the wrist that was working at your clit, toes curling as your knees squeezed into his hips, that heat building in your core.

“I can talk about how he eats pussy better than you,” It’s teasing, an effort to get a rise out of him, “or do you—you wanna hear how he whimpers when he fucks me because he’s so pathetic? Is th—is that what you want?” His hips stuttered with your words, “He’s so much sweeter, you know? S’all soft and kind—”

Nothing like Joel.

His hand seems to loosen at the mention, but you shake your head.

“Oh, don’t ease up now, honey—I never said I liked it.”

Joel opens his mouth to speak, but you didn’t want to hear it, shoving your opposite hand over his mouth as you both spill over the edge, the ache of loss finding you as he pulls out, thick ropes of come panting your stomach as you clench around the emptiness, his teeth digging into the palm of your hand as he groans with his release.

“I’ll handle Tommy,” Joel promises as you both dress, cleaning yourself up as he buttons his shirt, “It’ll be easier coming from me.”

“You don’t have to lie, he should know—”

“I’m not,” He responds quickly, looking up at you through his downturned gaze, “like you said—trust is earned. You’ll earn it.”

How was a mystery—but what other choice did you have?

-

You learn very quickly that Joel was intentional in you earning his trust—not so much Tommy. He wasn’t surprised by your attempt to escape, but the marring of their neighbors—yours too, now—he was slightly disappointed. Hoping that he could spare you the gruesome side of things, that keeping you within the house and under his watch would help save your innocence about the entire ordeal.

But, he quickly finds out that isn’t the case.

And you find out how steady their diet of human meat was, a fridge stocked full of various cuts and textures, unsuspecting to the eye but you knew—and truthfully, the sickness dissipates after a month of eating that way. Tommy will occasionally skip a day or two, sometimes even a week.

Whereas Joel, he’s fully accepted his ways.

“How does it work?” You ask curiously, night has crept in and left both you and Joel, who you’ve gradually drifted toward lately, aware of Tommy’s lingering touches and fighting that feeling of betrayal on both ends—Tommy never seemed to mind you favoring Joel, even indirectly. However, Joel was territorial, overwhelmingly so. You wished you disliked it, but that was the furthest thing from the truth.

“How’s what work?” He asks, legs spread wide on the couch as take a seat beside him, legs curled under your body and the fire crackling beside you, his hair wet from a recent shower and his shirt sticking to his skin, “Tommy’s job?”

You nod quietly, chewing on a piece of dried meat, akin to jerky. 

You’ve willingly succumbed to the lifestyle over the past few weeks, partly to blame on Joel, but mostly out of your own morbid curiosity, finding that it wasn’t all that bad as the nauseous and general sickness fell dormant. 

“I don’t fuckin’ know,” Joel answers bluntly, but honest, “He’s got some kinda system going, I do my job—cuttin’ things up, mindin’ my business. I just know it makes us damn good money.”

You wouldn’t be able to tell outside of their house, but they kept things well within the interior—they owned nice things, you assumed they were out of debt and had money saved back, but they lived beneath their means as much as possible. 

Joel liked a quiet life, you could tell. 

“I could help out more, you know.”

Outside of your general duties and decent pay—it felt lacking, like you could be doing more.

Neither of the brothers kept you chained or trapped, that much was obvious. And you didn’t feel the lingering threat of something to come, the need to run—the feeling of security was something you had searched out for a while and oddly, they provided that. 

In some sick, fucked up way, you felt protected. 

“Stock is runnin’ low,” Joel debates, his thumb circling the beer bottle between his legs, while his other trails along his bottom lip in thought, “I got an idea, dunno if Tommy’s gonna like it.”

“Who cares what he thinks?” You reply, “He cowers like a puppy when it comes to you.”

It was essentially a lure and catch situation—Joel never strayed too far, always on the outskirts while you found the next willing victim, it was always you approaching them, never the opposite. You were in full control and under very specific orders. 

Never people in town, always the stragglers. The more meek and unsuspecting the better, but it varied—after a couple months, Joel doesn’t even bother to stick around, sitting in his truck while you finish up the job.

And you’ve learned over time just how different Tommy and Joel are—Tommy prefers seclusion in the extremist of ways, more subdued with his affection when Joel was around and didn’t argue with him in your presence, almost like he was attempting to shield you.

Joel is out late in the barn when Tommy crowds you in the kitchen, a curious and longing stare out the window at the closed barn door, his tell-tale throat clearing as his hands wrap around your waist, his chest pressing against your back as you sip gingerly at the glass of water in your hands.

“M’glad you feel safe here,” Tommy murmurs into your skin, a soft peppering of kisses along your spine as he moves the material of your shirt out of the way, his fingers slipping beyond the thick waistband of your pants, shoving them down wordlessly, “ready for bed?”

“Not yet,” You admit, letting the silence linger before you speak again, “Can I ask you something—and I’m just curious, I swear.”

Tommy makes a noise of approval. 

“What happened to my car?” A laugh bubbles up at the thought and Tommy laughs too.

“I mighta sold it for scraps when you agreed to stayin’ with us long term. I was meaning to tell you, but you never asked…so I figured…”

Who cares, right? Truly, it was a piece of shit anyways.

You laugh softly at his advances as they grow more needy, your arm curling behind you to flex your fingers in his outgrown hair, “I want you to fuck me here,” You admit, his eyes peeking open as he leans over your shoulder to look at you, a salacious smile on your face as you lean back, rubbing your ass against his cock, growing hard underneath the confines of his sweats, before you turn to face him, “like this—right here.”

Fortunately, it takes very little convincing. He’s impatient in his movements, only getting both of your pants down before he’s pushing the head of his cock inside of you, a welcomed but comfortable stretch before his cock is fully seated inside of you, walls squeezing down tight as he buries his face into your clothed chest, your hands cradling his head as he rocks into you at a gentle pace.

“God, I’m never gonna get tired’f this,” Tommy groans weakly, a hand gripping tight at your hip as he quickens his thrusts, one hand falling back on the counter to support the forceful angle of his movements, laughing breathlessly at his comment, his head rises to look at you with complete and full admiration, “I’m serious, baby.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” You assure him, pressing a soft kiss to his lips that quickly divulges into an open-mouthed exploration as you trade sounds, feeling Tommy teeter closer to the edge of his own orgasm as his fingers drift against your clit, always assuring that you were taken care of first—it doesn’t take long, hands gripping the curtain above the sink as your whine loudly against his ministrations. 

Tommy is too distracted to hear the quiet creak of the door, but you’re not. The lights are off, only granting you a silhouette of Joel, but you know—he’s smirking to himself, closing the door behind him quietly as he freezes for a moment, seemingly locking eyes with your sated expression, your orgasm hitting you just as he passes down the hall, his face coming into view for a brief moment.

It was pathetic, how quickly your mind drifted to him even while his brother was buried inside of you, your grip on the curtain tightens, pulling the rod from the wall and sending it clanging down against the sink as it startles you back to reality, feeling Tommy’s hips stutter before he’s pulling out and you sink to the ground instinctively, lips wrapping around his cock as he releases the warmth of his cum against your tongue, a heady but tolerable taste that slides down your throat with ease. 

Joel is already gone by the time you rise to your feet, redressing quietly as Tommy examines the broken curtain with a subdued chuckle, tossing the few pieces of sheetrock in the trash.

“Sorry,” You wince, looking at him apologetically.

Tommy grins, his thumb rubbing down the center of your chin in a comforting way as he shrugs, waving it off, “Easy fix.”

The difference between the two is simple to spot after a while—Joel’s leniency with things comes to a head as Tommy’s rigidness battles for dominance. He doesn’t make it a habit to put his foot down often, but he was already increasingly hesitant as you started luring people back to the farm—while thankful, it was dangerous. You were good at it, without fail, but something was bound to implode.

–

“She’s earned it, you know,” Joel fights for you, the usual recluse encourages a night-out—a real one, no work, just pure enjoyment, “Ain’t much trouble to get into there.”

The bar, he means. With how often you frequented it now, it was like a second home.

You were coming up on your sixth month mark of living with the Millers, finding the stragglers came in like a cycle, every few weeks, and the town was due for more.

Tommy squints cautiously, turning in the desk chair as the heel of his boot scuffs against the flooring, “An hour—only an hour, don’t need you stickin’ out like a sore thumb.”

Joel, he means. He rolls his eyes in response, dressed more casual than you’ve ever seen him. It was a simple pair of jeans and a dark-colored shirt, but it made him seem normal.

It was unsettling.

“Don’t worry,” Joel smirks, “No one’ll touch her.”

Except him, you think.

Tommy wasn’t oblivious to your odd affection toward Joel, but he wasn’t privy to every detail. He didn’t know how often you snuck into Joel’s bed at night, sometimes after being on his own before that, the devouring looks and purposeful touches that always happened behind his back.

Joel knows you find comfort in Tommy, but there was something missing.

Something lacking.

Tommy eventually relents and you arrive at the bar a half hour later, Joel in tow.

And it is mostly uneventful, drinking amongst the other patrons with the loud rumble of music drowning out far away voices—Joel was stoic, like a bodyguard over your shoulder as he seemed to people watch, like he often did.

“You’re doing it again,” You tell him, peering up at him from your seat as he glances down, his glass pressing to his lips, ignoring the wide-eyed stares from the occasional townsperson, seemingly shocked to see him. 

“No I’m not,” He argues, tapping his finger against your lips before he’s guiding the glass to your lips, a wordless order to silence yourself, “Drink, enjoy it—or all that beggin’ was for nothin’.”

Eventually, Joel lets you wander.

Even if it was to dance lazily a few feet away, practically begging him to join you with your hand outstretched, a constant scowl on his face as he refused. But, eventually someone takes that offer for him, obstructing his view with a grin—an older gentleman with wiry hair and rotted teeth.

There’s a few moments of uncomfortable movement before you’re making an excuse to flee toward Joel who snickers at your discomfort, a hand wrapping at your waist to pull you between his legs as the man, persistent as you suspected, approaches beside you.

“Tommy finally let his dog out of the house?” He asks over you, staring Joel down.

Joel chuckles at that, subdued as his hand tightens against your waist, hiding your own giggle behind a sip of beer.

“C’mon, sweetheart—I’ll show you a better time than this guy. Wouldn’t know how to care for a nice piece of ass like that—him or his damn brother.”

Joel stands then, without warning as he towers over the man and you as he forces you into the seat, “Get the fuck out of here,” It was the only warning he was offering, but it strikes fear through the man without fail, sending him scurrying off for the moment.

“Tommy’s gonna kill you when he finds out about that,” You comment as Joel approaches at your back, maneuvering you out of the seat to settle between his legs again, his large palm settling against your stomach as he pulls you against him, spotting the man again from across the room, staring you both down with hardened eyes.

“What he doesn't know won’t hurt him,” Joel argues, the surprising press of his lips against your neck as you jump at the touch, calmed by his reassuring words, “Gonna scare him off, alright?”

“How—” You’re cut off on a gasp as his hand travels up your shirt, squeezing at your breast as his teeth dig into your skin, mouth hung open as you stumble back against him, eyes fluttering closed at the stinging pinch of Joel’s teeth, hard enough that you fear it breaking through the skin

Surely, it does. 

As Joel raises his head and catches sight of the man’s widened eyes, he scurries off. He’s not amiss to your reaction to the bite, fingers clawing into his skin, moaning at the action. Really, he should’ve expected it.

“Turn around,” He orders, spinning you on your feet before you can react on your own, catching sight of your dilated pupils as you stare at him wondrously, a smile growing on your face as his impatience grows.

He ignores your wandering hands that crawl up his arms, gripping onto his large biceps before he’s hauling you out of the bar without a word, arm twisted behind your back as you tumble on your feet toward his truck parked in the far back of the parking lot, far away from the roar of music.

“Did I do something—oh,” You squeak, jumping back at the creak of the drivers’ side door as he sandwiches you between the seat and him, “wrong—Joel, did I—”

You’re stuttering but he isn’t answering and you begin to crawl to your side of the seat before he’s stopping you in your tracks, feet pressing against the step bar of the truck while the upper half of your body curls against the seat—and Joel, with his large and threatening presence, towers.

He works at the belt in your jeans, turning your head over your shoulder as he rips the leather from the loops of your pants, “Put your hands on the steering wheel,” He orders and you follow suit, watching as he quietly tightened the belt around your hands and through the steering wheel, rendering you immobile from the waist up.

“Wait—right here? But, there’s people—”

Never stopped you before,” He comments and your face heats at the mention, having never brought up the instance with you and Tommy until now, “I’m not a fan of waiting and I’m not against takin’ you in front of my brother—rather not, but…”

“You like having me to yourself,” You finish for him, a hum of acknowledgement following. 

Joel yanks at your jeans until they fall to your ankles, pulling them off alongside your shoes and underwear as he tosses them over your head and into the passenger seat, sinking to his knees without a word as he parts your legs, licking into your with warning as you gasp, your hands yanking against the leather belt.

He squeezes your ass in his hands, spreading you open as he dips his tongue inside of you, forcing you up on your toes as you curse into the seat of his truck, forehead pressing into the fabric as your hands are stretched over your head. 

He’s got an idea…a lingering suspicion as he trails his lips along the inside of your legs, never quite kissing or lingering, just a slow drag before he’s digging his teeth into your skin, a sharp pain that makes your pussy clench, his eyes locked on the action as he bites down. 

Instinctively, you yank against the binds, the urgency growing as he bites down more, picking various places along your legs until he decides to bite into the fleshy cheek of your ass, purposefully breaking the skin—the tiniest drop of blood pooling at the surface before he licks it away. 

He repeats the process, trading between bites and licking at your cunt until your orgasm catches you by surprise, panting against the seat as you catch your breath with his satisfied presence looming behind. 

Quietly, he rustles with his belt and slides into you without a word until he’s got his hand tucked up under your chin, wrapped around your throat as he presses you against the seat with his chest, turning your head to the side to catch your already fucked-out expression, more turned on from the biting than the fact that his dick was finally inside of you.

“I fuckin’ knew it,” Joel remarks, watching the smile spread across your face, “You like it when I bite you? The pain?”

You shake your head with a soft hum, “S’nice, but I like you marking your territory.” You watch his face morph into something indecipherable as you laugh, “Got you really riled up in there, didn’t it?”

“Gotta let them know to lead you back to me if you go runnin’ off again,” Joel taunts, grunting against the shell of your ear as your walls squeeze down when the head of his cock nudges at a particular spot inside of you that steals your breath away, “Yeah—that? That right there?”

You nod weakly, wishing you could touch him—claw at his skin, grab on and take hold, but you were left helpless. Though, somehow it was more comforting this way. Joel was increasingly careful of the authority you tried to hold over him, never allowing you to have the upper hand—and you didn’t mind it.

Again, it was the stark difference between he and Tommy, who’d be willing to bend to your will if you asked, eager to please you, but with Joel, it was kismet. He always knew what you were thinking before you even spoke about it.

And as the ache in your wrist grows into full discomfort he releases them without a word of acknowledgement, lips parted with bated breath as you turn until your back is pressing into the seat, legs wrapping around his waist as he hoists you up with his brute strength, releasing a loud moan of expressive pleasure as you surge forward, pressing your lips against his before he can object, licking into his mouth with profound eagerness as his nails dig into the skin at your hips, his balls tightening with an impending release as he returns the wet, sloppy exchange of lips.

It stalls him for a moment, the sensual pace of your lips pulling his focus up, your tongue twirling around his own before they trail to his lips, your lips dragging down his chin, along his jaw, before you’re biting against where his jugular would be hiding under his skin, not nearly hard enough to cause any damage but enough to have his eyes rolling back and his hips stuttering.

“Don’t—don’t pull out,” You tell him through a murmur, running your tongue along the mark in a soothing gesture, catching his gaze as he looks at you, “What? Are you scared, Joel?”

Not scared—Joel wasn’t sure he could emulate that emotion anymore, but it was far too personal for his liking, even with the few partners he’s had in his life he’s never crested beyond that, purposeful in his abhorrence distaste of kids or the possibility of, but you have him completely under your spell and he shakes his head.

“S’just you—wouldn’t want it to be anyone but you.” You assure him, his expression softening as your thumb trails along his bottom lip, eyes locked on his own as his thrusts stuttering through his own orgasm, face pinching at his brow, your breathy moans guiding him through as he pumps your pussy full, feel the warmth seep down as he eventually pulls out, his cum sliding down the inside of your thighs.

“Get in the car,” Joel instructs as he tries to catch his breath.

His silence on the ride home is deafening.

–

Joel is more stoic and pensive over the following weeks—spring is always harder on the business, or so he says, and selling overseas picks up quicker, it wasn’t something they could explain but it was a constant trend; high demand, high reward. It was quite stressful, really.

So stressful that eventually things are beginning to run thin and you become the source of stress relief for both of them—in different ways, but nonetheless.

Tommy would rather cuddle up with you on the couch while you lull him to sleep with your magic fingers, dragging through his hair—it was gentle caresses and quiet conversation that he found comfort in, but Joel was always unpredictable.

Sometimes it was just sharing a meal—his weird obsession with feeding you; providing, in a way? You couldn’t make sense of it, but it never made you feel uncomfortable.

“Have you ever gotten a bad batch?”

“We’re careful,” Joel reminds you, “It’s why we test all of ‘em before we go through the process.”

“Is that why you sent me?”

“Do you want an honest answer?”

You stare at him blankly, waiting.

“Yeah—we had to make sure you’re clean.”

“But now?” You push, your tongue pressing against the underside of the fork as he brings it to your lips.

“I trust you,” Joel admits, “You’ve kept up your end of the deal.”

It was conversations like this that led to Joel’s affinity toward you, a drunken night several weeks later leading you both outside after Tommy had already fallen asleep, walking backwards as your fists curled into Joel’s shirt as his hand cupped your head, licking into your mouth as he unintentionally led you toward the barn door, both of you separating as your back hit the creaking wood.

You pull apart, peering curiously over your shoulder and attempting to look through the cracks, awaiting Joel’s reprimand that never comes. 

“You wanna see inside?” He asks curiously.

“You’re fucking with me—”

“It’s a yes or no, darlin’.”

“Yes—yesyes, I do.” You spit out quickly, curiosity getting the best of you as he fishes his keys out of his pocket and snakes it into the lock, unlocking and prying the door open, met with full and complete darkness as he leads you inside, his chest close at your back.

He reaches blindly for the lights out of memory and you’re engulfed in the blaring lights of a spotless room—almost like a medical office with the array of equipment lining the walls and the long embedded tables, something reminiscent of what you would see at a mortuary for draining bodies and embalming, probably to help with the mess.

You sniff slightly, curious about the lack of smell as the door closes.

“That’s partly the animals, but we dispose of some of the shit the pigs can’t eat out behind the barn.”

“Like what?” You stare at him incredulously, eyes wide.

“Clothes, shoes—s’why we have the barrels burning every couple weeks when the stench gets too bad.” He spots your itch to explore, that glistening curiosity in your eyes as you relax at his answer, “Go on, look ‘round.”

You’re not ignorant to the absence of bodies—it was confusing to see a place so clean come from a man who always left work looking like he had brought half of it home with him.

There’s an array of knives and confusing cutting devices that you trail your fingers along, a bonesaw lying against the table lining the shelves, a stack of papers with faces and names, various info that you took a glancing look at, attempting to avoid the idea of putting names to faces and treating the people as anything other than product—it was how Joel lived, as disconnected and separate from the ideas possible.

“Usually it’s messier in here,” Joel admits, your lips parting in a surprised gasp as he presses his lips to your neck, “—we can fix that, though.”

“Joel Miller,” You respond in a scandalized tone, “what exactly are you implying?”

“I’ve got a room upstairs,” Your eyes flick up, spotting the loft overhead—that would explain the long nights when you wouldn’t see him at all, his comfort with being more openly affectionate outside of sex has grown slowly, turning your head to face his over your shoulder as his gaze trails up in another silent question, “unless you’ve got another idea—m’just dyin’ to get inside of you, honey.”

Your teeth dig into your bottom lip in faux thought, already knowing your answer as you were brimming with excitement, resisting the urge to drag him after you.

“Yeah?” You tease, his lips pressing against your soft, kissing you soundly.

“Yeah,” He responds against your mouth, a rare moment of calm, a sweet exchange before he’s chasing after you with a swift slap to your ass.

–

It was essentially an extension of his bedroom, cozy and homey, you find yourself stretching out on the rug rather than the couch, watching as he carefully kneeled to the floor, cursing his achy knees as you giggle, spreading your legs open to invite him in.

“The things you do for me,” You joke, slowly unbutton his flannel as he yanks you towards him, knees falling against his hips as his palms grip either side of your, his thumbs rubbing against the soft skin underneath your shirt, “careful—I might think you love me.”

“If that’s what you want,” Joel replies easily, stripping your shirt over your head as your breasts bounce free, removing your jeans with the same impatience before he’s immediately latching his lips onto your breasts and lazily trading off, biting teasingly into the skin as he looks up to gauge your reaction.

If Tommy notices Joel’s evidence that he leaves, he never says anything. Perhaps it was unspoken, maybe they’ve talked it out—it was information you weren’t privy to, but you didn’t question it. He could smell his brother all over you and he was dying to rid you of it, baring his teeth as he bit into the flesh of your breast, a satisfied hum coming from you in response.

“Do you want that?” Joel asks again, “To be loved—ain’t somethin’ you’ve felt much, is it?”

Quietly, you shake your head.

“Well, you’ve got my brother by the balls,” He chuckles knowingly, “I’m sure he’d marry you if you asked—I ain’t good with words, but I can show you—”

Curious, you watch as he stands, grabbing a sharpened knife off the end table before he’s returning to you, “Somethin’ my parents passed down to me—never used, just like lookin’ at it.”

“We’re not about to Romeo and Juliet ourselves, are we?” You joke lightly, half-serious.

Joel grins wide at that, a full belly laugh following as he slices his palm with a squint of pain before he’s allowing the blood to pool in his hand as beckons you forward with a finger. You rise on your palms and stare curiously before he’s directing his hand to your mouth, lips parting wordlessly as the deep crimson hits your tongue, eyes falling shut as you sucked at the wound.

You were so accustomed to the rich, irony taste that it isn’t even a surprise, moaning as the blood slides down your throat and his fingers curl, squeezing more blood out for you to consume before he’s sliding his hand over your mouth and down your chin, stopping against your chest as he smears it with blood, one-handed as he shrugs his flannel off and rips his shirt over his head, tearing the fabric apart in strips like butter, not a sign of struggle.

He ties the fabric around his wound before he’s wordlessly handing you the knife.

“My hand?” You ask curiously.

“S’up to you,” He admits—the wordless blood trade vowing his affection toward you.

It was something far deeper than love, you think. Devotion. Loyalty. 

“Wherever?” Your eyebrow raises as Joel seems to clock the moment the idea comes into your head, trailing the blade along the inside of your thigh, up your stomach, along your breasts.

Eventually the tip of the blade finds a spot against your inner thigh, Joel’s hand careful adjusting your placing as he speaks, “Careful, there’s an artery there,” Further down, you brave the initial sting and slice through the skin, watching as the blood rose to the surface and Joel quickly descends, knife clattering to the floor as he sucks the flesh between his lips, his tongue lapping against your skin.

It’s euphoric, the feeling. So intense you could descend into madness as Joel eagerly lapped up the blood, even as he pulled away going back for a second time, a third, rising with blood stained lips and the crimson liquid pooling on his tongue as he pulls you toward him, mixing the taste of his blood with your own as he kisses you, a messy exchange of fluids as you claw at his skin, rising to your knees to match him.

Silently, you work at his jeans, unbuttoning and pulling them down his lips alongside his underwear—Joel works them the rest of the way before you’re pulling the hand supporting him over you out from under him, straddling him into the rug as your cunt sat directly over his cock, feeling him grow harder underneath you, a sight to behold with blood dripping down the corner of his mouth.

“I want more,” You tell him honestly, his cock twitching at the words, reaching for the knife laying beside his head, “Can I have more?”

Joel nods wordlessly, slightly breathless.

It was a trading battle of surface wounds, just enough to spill blood but nothing deep enough to cause any damage—surely looking insane as you straddled him with a smile, blood-stained lips yearning for more. Joel has a drunken haze to his expression, committing the sight to memory as he squeezes at your hips, rutting his cock between your soaked folds.

“Enough,” He says softly, barely above a mumble as he tosses the knife aside, rolling you underneath him before he’s sliding home inside of you, a hand cradling the back of your head while the other gripped at your knee, pulling it high over his hip, near his chest as he thrusts into you, a controlled but needy pace that was followed by low, pitiful groans of pleasure.

You’d broken this man.

His head was buried in your neck, your hand trailing down his back as you squeeze into the flesh of his ass, the fingers off your opposite hand carding through his hair, pulling gently at his curls.

“Got so much of me inside you now,” He breathes into your skin, “fuck—I’d eat your right up, baby.”

Despite his obvious lifestyle, your laugh is careless and light.

“Greedy,” You note, “I’ve already given you a taste and you’re asking for more?”

He doesn’t respond, not really. His hips are sharp, forceful as his cock spears itself inside of you, rubbing against the sensitive spot inside of you, eyes fluttering shut as it overwhelms you.

“Take a bite,” You encourage him, “f’that’s what you want.”

A real one.

Enough to scar, to leave a permanent mark and reminder of him.

One, two—you didn’t care.

His teeth drag over your breasts, tongue trailing around your hardened nipple before he’s biting into the skin at the top of you breasts, a gasp ripping from your throat as your walls flutter around him, tightening at the pain that slowly transfers to pleasure, glancing down at the small gash and trail of teeth marks in your skin. 

He’s admiring, finger running over the wound before he’s rising on his knees, continuing the thrusts of his hips but slowing as he reaches for your hand, pulling you upright again.

“You–do you want me to?” You ask cautiously, feeling the blood from your wound trail down your chest, “Are you sure?”

“Ain’t never been sure ‘bout nothin’,” Joel admits, “but—this…yeah, I want it.”

It shouldn’t make you hesitate, but it doesn’t. He isn’t emotional or forceful—it was like a plea, disguised behind his facade of stoicness. He needed this devotion just as bad as you. He needed someone to put his own trust into.

When your teeth dig into his side, he hisses, his right hand cradling your head as the other curls tightly into a fist, your face pinching up as you bite beyond the first layer of flesh and taste the liquid against your tongue.

He pulls you away eventually, looking down at you with a newfound expression.

This was love—not the lust you were used to seeing.

The rest of the evening is quiet, his pace gentler before he brings you to a slow orgasm, coming inside of you nearly seconds after with a soft moan, persistent that the wounds needed to be cleaned immediately after a few moments of rest.

He tapes it away with a gentle care after cleaning and applying an ointment to fight away any possible infection, snorting at how fatherly it all seemed, even helping you situation your top back on.

“At least we spared the rug,” You break the silence, “guess you aren’t as messy as I thought.”

“Oh, I can be,” He assures you, noticing the scabbed up bit of your lip that had become victim when he’d bit into your, biting down to silence yourself. Just a small movement and the wound reopens, completely unintentional but he sucks the blood away from your bottom lip in a soothing gesture before he kisses you soundly.

You only hoped the bliss would last.

–

Eventually, the implosion comes. But, instead of gradual—it was all at once.

Tommy’s birthday was supposed to be a quiet affair, something at home, between the three of you, not having time to celebrate during the week on his actual birthday like you had planned—but eventually Tommy finds himself antsy and Joel senses your annoyance as he keeps finding excuses to slip away or cancel. He encourages Tommy to go off on his own, leaving you both sprawled out on his bed after a rousing round of sex that leaves you both sweaty and breathless, resting your arm against his chest as you stare at him, “What’s up with him lately?”

“He’s good at acting, isn’t he?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“There’s a reason he keeps to the books, you know—why I do my job alone.”

Your eyebrow raises in a silent effort to urge him to continue.

“When I’m angry, you’ll know—” That much was obvious, having been on the receiving end plenty, but Tommy—it was unnatural to see anything but his kind, bright smile.

“He’s my brother—but there’s plenty of shit you haven’t seen yet. And I think it’s unfair that he’s actin’ like things are normal, like he can keep that act up, but something’s gotta give—”

“So what, is he like…a psychopath or something?”

Joel’s silence is telling, jumping up from your spot as you settle on your knees.

“He’s a fucking psychopath?”

“No—no,” Joel excuses, your face contorting into a mix of confusion and amusement.

“You took a long time to answer that.”

“He has episodes—periods of time where he ain’t himself. I can’t explain it and my parents refused to take him to the doctor—you know, backwoods folk and all. If we had a problem we toughed it out.”

“So, he’s got anger issues?”

Joel shakes his head, lips pursed into a tight line.

“He’s killed a couple people—by accident.  Least, that’s what he calls it. Tried killing me a few times, too. I’ve always been good at talking him off that ledge, thankfully. M’not trying to turn you against him but I’ve grown up around him, I know how to handle it.”

It was a lot of information to consume at once, still naked in Joel’s sheets as you adjust to sit more comfortably, a small peek at the scar near his ribcage as the sheets shift down.

“He’s lucky we do what we do—he’d probably be in jail otherwise, I’m just telling you because—“

“If it came down to me and him, you’d choose him.”

Joel pauses, his face softened as his lips downturn.

“It’s okay,” You shrug, “Let’s just hope it never comes to that.”

Truthfully, Joel wasn’t sure anymore.

After years with Tommy, he’d grown tired. It was exhausting, fighting between the battling personalities that lived within his brother.

“C’mere,” He beckons, your nose scrunching up as you grin, fitting your face between his waiting hands as he pulls you back over him, kissing you slowly.

A gentle calm before the storm.

–

The arguing is what wakes you first, not the roar of the truck, voices trailing toward the barn.

The bed is empty too, not a single remnant of Joel in sight.

But, you hear him. Loud, angry.

By the time you’re outside the barn is already closed, illuminated by the light inside as you pry the heavy door open, several underdressed with only a shirt to cover the underwear clinging tight to your skin, bare feet digging into the dirt as your feet scuff against the cement and the door falls shut behind you.

“She doesn’t need to know, Joel!” Tommy’s voice cracks, a slight slur to his speech.

He’s drunk, clearly.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Tommy—one night and you pull this shit? It’s exactly why dad had a tight leash on your ass for so many years—”

“Need to know what?” You ask suddenly, breaking through the tension as your head peeks around the corner, both of their heads whipping toward you, Joel moving subtly to block the body that you spot on the table, eyes widening. 

It had always been something you and Joel had managed together—Tommy had never shown an interest, didn’t seem to care, but this…

“I’m just tryin’ to carry my weight ‘round here—is that why you like him more?” Tommy asks suddenly, his eyes glazed over and dark as you step forward.

“I invite you into our home—give you a place to stay. I—I stuck up for you when he wanted to throw you out and you chose him? My own fuckin’ brother?”

“He’s drunk,” Joel states blankly, almost dismissive of his rant.

“No—no, let’s show it off, Joel.”

Tommy comes at you with a knife, slicing it down the middle of your shirt as you struggle against him, ripping the fabric away and showing off the healing scar on your chest.

“What happened to no attachments, Joel? No baggage?”

As Joel moves toward Tommy to remove the knife, he lunges at Joel and pushes him out of the way, leaving you with a clear view of the woman laying on the table, an eerie resemblance to yourself as your eyes widen, stepping toward the table as you glance over the body—unmoving, still. She was already too far gone, with no signs of what Tommy had actually done to her.

Your head snaps up at the brawling brothers, screaming for the attention to break through their rage, Joel burying his knee into Tommy’s back to subdue him.

“Why her?” You ask him—Tommy, looking directly at him as you point to the lifeless body.

“Get the fuck off me—” He argues through gritted teeth, attempting to shake his brother off him.

“Why—her?” You stress again, walking forward to crouch in front of him, uncaring of how your body was bared to him in your vulnerability.

“Thought I could give Joel his own version of you to play with—but she wasn’t cooperating. That what you wanna hear? I had you first—motherfucker won’t let me have a single thing to myself.”

“Let him up,” You instruct Joel, backing away slightly.

As Tommy stands, you approach him, his face tight and unrecognizable. 

He reeked of alcohol and sweat, a stench of something else that made the bile in your stomach rise, “I never chose, you both had me. You would continue to have me, but this—Tommy—”

“Don’t fuckin’ lecture me, not you,” He bites.

You stare at him with a growing sadness, “You’re drunk—really, really drunk. You’re gonna sleep this off and you’ll regret everything you’re saying right now, I know it. I know you.”

Something seems to snap in Tommy—attempting to rip away from Joel as you scramble toward the floor.

Tommy gets a solid right hook in, something that, if any normal person would have delivered would have left Joel unphased, but Tommy had his advantages, similar in size and stature to Joel, it was barely a fight as Joel dropped to the ground, hitting hard enough that both of you freeze, a slow ring of blood pooling from his head as your chest clinches in a mix of anger and resentment, but your body flinging into flight mode, fleeing while Tommy has distracted by the possibility that he killed his own brother.

Unfamiliar with the place you scramble to hide, unsure if running off would help after your last try, squeezing into a closet buried in the back corner behind a pile of yard tools and mowers, watching as Tommy dropped to the ground.

You could hear him mumbling to himself—a mix of self-assuring words and back and forth conversation, as if someone was responding to every word he offered.

“He’s dead—yeah I killed him,” He mumbles, “if I—if I chop him up, chop her up. Fuck,” His head whips over his shoulder, realizing you were gone, “gotta find her—but Joel, deal with him first.”

Your eyes widen at the firsthand witnessing of exactly what Joel had admitted to you—like some kind of bad omen of what was to come, you sunk down into the darkness and hide yourself away, watching as Tommy roamed around for tools, not a moment of hesitation as he intended to follow through on his plans with Joel’s lifeless body awaiting it’s demise.

It feels wrong, tossing a bone saw aside carelessly as he ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation, flailing tools around wildly, a knife clattering so far away that it lands near your feet, small enough to wrap your fist around as you grab it quietly, awaiting Tommy’s approach to Joel.

Sometimes takes over, not entirely yourself as you crawl from the spot you were hidden in and lunge at Tommy, planting the knife between his shoulder blades as pressed the blade against his own brother’s neck, his blood curdling scream ripping through the barn as he dropped to his knees.

“You bitch,” He groans, shouting out in pain as you remove the knife and sink into his spine, a few seconds of struggle before he slumps to the ground, his eyes dragging toward your shaking frame, bloodied hands rubbing your hair away from your face as you stare down at Tommy’s face, his lips parting as he gasped for air but instead find blood dripping from his mouth.

You drop to your knees, the air stolen from your own lungs but for different reasons.

Both of them dead, within a matter of minutes and it was all your fault.

“Fuck, fuck–” You cry, slamming your fist into cement, but quickly startled by the rousing beside Tommy, almost blaming it on a break in your psyche before Joel is mumbling your name, pressing his fingers into his temple as blood coats his fingers, a sizeable gash on the side of his head as he sits, slowly picking apart the sight before him.

“Oh, honey—what did you do?” Joel asks, glancing down at Tommy’s lifeless body and up at you—surprisingly, there wasn’t an ounce of anger.

“He thought—he thought you were dead, he had a knife at your throat,” You rambled in a panic, “He kept saying he was going to chop you up—chop me up. I don’t know, I fucking panicked.”

Joel remains wordless, staring into the deep abyss of blood pooling on the floor.

“I’m so—I’m sorry. I’m,” The emotion is like a tidal wave, “Joel—I panicked. I swear—”

Joel grimaces against the sharp sting of pain as he reaches for your face, his blood covered hand pressing against your face, fingertips wrapping around the back of your head as he forces you to lock eyes with him.

“Look at me,” He demands, waiting until your eyes lock on him, “This is the part where you promise—and I mean promise, that you won’t fuckin’ run off.”

“No—never. Never, not,” You shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut to blink away the thick tears, “Never again, Joel. I promise.”

“We handle this together,” He explains, “I’ll protect you but you have to say it.”

“Anything,” You nod, leaning forward on your hands to move closer to him.

“Say you’re loyal to me—that you’ll listen and do whatever I ask, without question.”

“I am—I am. Joel, I’m loyal to you. I love—I love you. I need you to know that.”

Joel sighs, head bowing.

“I would have chosen you over him. I couldn’t admit that to myself earlier, but I’m telling you now. Tommy’s always been a manipulator, I tried warnin’ you. Months ago.”

You ain’t the first, you won’t be the last.

“I won’t run. I promise, Joel.” You assure him, because with Joel you felt that protection.

A silence falls before you speak again.

“What happens now?”

“You follow my lead, that’s all I need.”

[livingsurreal]

More thoughts and theories about our favorite Necromancer

My darlings, I have too many thoughts and my obsession is running wild. (How I missed you, hyperfocus). If you have read my last meta post about our Emmrich, here it is: First Meta Post

That is not a required read however. I am still wondering why anyone is reading my word vomit U_U

Anyway, I love reading other peoples theories, so please, send me yours. <3 And a lot of thanks and love for all you darlings who make this fandom such a beautiful and nice place. Especially to @jaal-ama-daravv - who makes the most beautiful videos, and writes such wonderful character studies.

Warning, from here on there will be spoilers as well as mentions of sex. If you don't want to read about any of that, do not read the rest.

Also pictures and way too many words. This is a ten page word document, save yourself while you can. I tend to go off on a tangent once I start writing. I am also well aware that not everyone will agree. This is just my personal read on Emmrich.

Now, after my first essay I have some more thoughts on Emmrich and Rook and specifically their intimate relationship.

Emmrich is such an interesting and baffling contradiction. On the one hand he is confident, self-assured, all manners and poise. He is smart, and he knows it. He has special gifts, and he knows it.  He is confident without being proud. He likes to teach others without being arrogant. He still likes to learn about new things and is, as far as I’ve seen, never judgmental about different beliefs and ways of life. (Unless someone treats him with disdain or bully him)

He is a man who is confident speaking of his thoughts and feelings and fears. How he just casually drops his thanatophobia is just astonishing. He is honest and open-minded in the best ways.

And then there is the other side of him. The wet kitten side of him. As open and honest as he is about his emotions, when we get to the meat of it, to the scary bit, the real feely bit, he locks up completely. As long as it is surface level (or he can pretend its surface level), everything is up for discussion. But once we reach deeper and touch *love* he gets so scared and refuses to admit and commit to his feelings. And as much *death* scares him, love scares him more.

So how does that influence his intimate relationship with Rook?

According to the banter with Lace “everyone knows about it”. He was rather surprised by that.

That tells us two things:

They were trying to be sneaky or at least keep their private business private.

They failed, massively.

Add to that Laces comment about them moving rather fast (when, where? I would have loved to have seen that. Comments like that just give me the feeling that we should have had some more cutscenes after the dinner date, to show us those two besotted fools).

But back to them moving rather fast. I would guess that they both did a lot of gazing lovingly at each other, blushing, spacing out while watching their darling, stollen kisses in the hallway when they thought no one was watching, stuff like that. Just being to besotted fools.

But moving fast usually includes sex. Lots of needy, sweaty sex. The inability to keep their hands of each other.

That moves us to the question of the day – did they have sex before their coffin time?

Let’s look at what we know about Emmrich. Emmrich is no virgin. That man has experience. He had past lovers. But what he tells us at that sweet diner date – “nothing serious for years.” We know not much else besides his crush on a boy in his youth and his fling with the Orlesian Art Lady. He is not someone to kiss and tell and that is appreciated. That man has class, and we love him for it.

So - nothing SERIOUS for years. If he hadn’t had ANY relationships in the past years, he would have said so. But what he says is that he did, in fact, have UNSERIOUS relationships in the last few years.

I would read that to be somewhere along the “fwb, lovers, affairs, paramours, companions, a fling, a little romance” line. Something not purely, but mainly physically driven. Someone you like and respect, you can go out and have a good time with, have lots of amazing sex with (b/c he is a living being and has his needs). Spending time with people he liked, was sexually attracted too, but nothing as serious as love. A physical relationship. A little thrill, some fluttering, but never that deep.

Not to say that those situationships would not have been romantic. He is (buried under all that resignation) a deeply romantic man. I am pretty sure he went on nice romantic dates with his previous paramours too. That this is something he just enjoys too much. Treating a companion with some quality time, not just in, but also out of the bedroom.

But after he’d given up on his dreams, he did not have any notion of those flings being more than a “enjoy the moment”. There was never the expectation of deeper feelings, beyond friendship, attraction and/or respect. All those romantic gestures were nothing more than a little bit of “play pretend”. To give himself the illusion of true romance, just for a little time.

Take the fact that you can go a “everything you do is creepy but I still flirt with you and I want you to throw me over that tombstone” and his comment on “the attraction of the forbidden”? This is not a relationship born of mutual respect and deeper feelings but out of purely physical attraction. And he is OK with that.

I want to repeat – Emmrich is very much okay with a casual, sexual affair. He does not require love to have a relationship with someone.

And then think about that Johanna calls Rook specifically his “paramour”. Which is a lover, especially an illicit one. This word was very specifically chosen by Johanna. For various reasons, I would think.

For one, I do believe that it is a dig at his dreams of the eternal flame. It’s a dig at him, that Rook is not his love, but his paramour. A lover for a time. To be parted from soon enough. B/c that silly dream of his, as if it ever would become reality.

Second, I think it is a comment on the way his relationships often went, especially in the past years. Those unserious flings of his. Never to amount to anything substantial.

Did he try to have something serious in the past? Oh yes, for sure. But it never worked out. Then he gave up his dream and just let himself have a good time with people he found to be nice and attractive.

To pick up my point of self-sabotage from my last meta post – I’ve come to a point where I believe Emmrich is a kind of chaser. I know someone like that and it’s so fucking tragic.

Emmrich feels deeply and strongly. When he falls in love with someone it’s a lot of emotion. But at that point it’s all dream, want, wish. As soon as someone returns these feelings - those dreams, wants and wishes become reality. And reality is scary. In this wishful dream about the eternal flame, there is no fear. No fights. No loss. But that is not reality. As soon as it becomes reality, he gets scared. Before, his feelings were no threat, because you can’t lose what you don’t have. Once those feelings are returned, there is a clear possibility of losing, of being lost, of being left behind.

Emmrich is not a chaser because he enjoys the hunt. He is a chaser because being loved by someone is scary. So damn scary. So, he starts to pick fights and is looking for excuses. From being the chaser, he becomes the chased. He is hunted by his fears, and his fight or flight instincts go all flight.

After years of this cycle he gives up. Resigns himself to flings and little romances without even thinking of more. Or so he thinks. Dreams like that don’t die, they just get buried.

And I’d think that there was not many, even of those short term flings, lately. His life revolves around work and Manfred.

Now remember he comments on Rook “showing unexpected interest in a new companion”.

First of all – unexpected.

They are a daring adventurer. He thinks of himself clearly as the more boring one, compared to Rook. He never expected any of those flirts. But he is clearly flattered.

Second – companion.

That was such a weird way of saying “hey do you like me?”. This whole “companion” thing does not scream “I have FEELZ for you/you have FEELZ for me” but rather, “I think you might want to spend some quality time with me”.

The possible answers - dashing good looks, kindness, his way of words.

He feels he is fortunate if Rook thinks him good looking. Hallo, Mr. Professor, sir… Have you looked in the mirror lately? Consider that he is meticulously grooming himself, takes his exercises daily in the morning. That man does not like himself aging. I think it is a reminder of how his pending death is a step closer every day. But it shows, to him, that his efforts of taking care of himself are not in vain. Or maybe it shows him that his age does not matter. Rook finds him attractive despite (or because) of his physical age.

Rooks comment on his very charming way of putting things makes him hope his years behind the lectern have proved useful. Hey *years* behind the lectern. Again, this is a way of saying his age is NOT a problem but a benefit.

If Rook remarks his kindness, he answers “you humble me”. It’s the one answer that does not touch his age/experience/looks. It’s a remark on an innate character trait he possesses. Kindness. His whole demeanor in this option shows he is actually touched. And maybe a bit baffled. He did not expect this, at all. Its like he sees his kindness not as an attractive trait. Which he should. He is nice without TM and its sexy as hell.

The next part is his statement “If your attentions go beyond charming flattery… that would interest me, indeed”. This reads to me not necessarily as “do you have feelings for me” but as “do you just enjoy the flirting, or do you want to do more than flirting?”

And oh boy, does he want to do more than flirting. I want to repeat my earlier statement – this man has given up on love. But some little fling with an exiting young adventure who was constantly, awkwardly flirting with him? Hell, yeah.

(I want to remind you that we were able to have mutually enjoyed flirts with Dorian as fem!Inky. You can flirt with someone and still never want to fuck them. And you are also perfectly able to want more than flirting without having deeper feelings. Like sweet, dump Shepaloo said it so eloquently “Lets bang, okay?”)

Again, I want to pick up a point of my last post, that this is all surface level thoughts. I do believe that their emotional attraction and depth of feelings go deeper, from the start. But how often does it take quite a bit of time to realize one’s own feelings. Especially this wonderful, silly man whose modus operandi is running away.

Now, an interested Rook can answer in an open “lets see where this goes” way. Mirroring his rather open idea of a little romance, a fling, some quality time. Something that does not have to end in an eternal flame, but a simple enjoyment and exploration of the moment.

Rook can also reply with a “I think they do.” – What Rook actually says is “I think they already…”

And conveniently Rooks answer here is cut short by our sweet boy Manfred. They get cut short, no matter what answer you choose, but in this specific case, I am convinced this was very much on purpose. What would the whole sentence have been?

“I think they already go way beyond flattery.” (?!?) Something along those lines. But that goes into danger zone. WAY into danger zone.

If Rook had finished that sentence, at that point in their budding romance? It would have been over before is all started. Too much, too soon. Too much for him, period.

Now we have the hard lock – their sweet romantic moment in the Memorial Gardens. And he is smitten. He fell hook, line, and sinker for his own play pretend. Just a little romance, but that man is falling, fast. (Not that he would admit that to himself).

A beautiful date, all arranged by Emmrich, to spend time with Rook. Because a couple should have a quite moment to get to know each other. I mean there were menu cards with gilded edges, ffs. And, oh yes, they were “lets dig into the feelings”, he said couple. He is falling, falling, falling fast. But it still hasn’t hit him, how deep he has fallen for his darling Rook. Poor Emmrich.

Then a fight, where we really see the wet kitten side of him for the first time. A little wet, feral kitten, hissing at the hand that’s trying to feed it.

Emmrich is lashing out for no good reason (or no good reason for anyone but himself). There is no real confidence there but a desperate act of pretending. An iron (slipping) grip, trying to control himself and the narrative. Shoulders squared, back straight, an arrogant stance, raised chin, turned half-away from Rook, and a condescending way of talking to Rook.

Like I said in my last post – he is working his way up to breaking up with them. And he tells himself it’s like ripping off a bandaid. Be strong and confident and say what you have to say, and they will see the wisdom of that.

It’s only that, they don’t. Because there IS NO wisdom in what he is doing right now. They don’t take his bullshit but throw it back at him. They don’t accept his mock excuses.

Look at him here, how he looks down ON them. I can’t recall any other time he looks down on Rook, despite him being a tall king.

Especially the route where Rook throws it in his face that he DOES in fact love them. Speak what he can’t even think.

“I can’t… At my…”

“I can’t love you. At my age…” Why not? Does he not deserve love, just because he is a bit older? It’s just heartbreaking how he views himself.

And again, he lashes out.

“I am perfectly serious.” So is Rook.

“One of us has to pay attention to these things.” As if Rook is not paying attention. They got to the meat and bones of his problem in just a few seconds.

No matter what route you go here, the gist is the same. He is scared shitless, treats Rook like a child, and goes on how the is the only one thinking the important thoughts.

When Rook in reality way ahead of him. They thought about it and came to the conclusion that being with Emmrich is a really good idea.

Rook knew they were falling for someone older than them. (Even if that age difference is just a decade, with a mid-40s Rook.) They knew it, and still went with it. They are not a child who is too inexperienced and stupid to make decisions about their (love) life.

But now, here, at this moment? Emmrich treats them with disdain. Like a silly little person, who does not think things through. He holds himself above them. Physically and mentally. They are too young, he knows better.

And not once has he done that before. He always treated them as an equal. He follows them into the most dangerous situations ffs. He trusts them with his life in a fight against would-be gods.

All that fear and anger at himself that reaches a new high get redirected at Rook.

The next day they are off to Tearstone Island. That night must have been hell. For both of them. But its going to get much much worse.

In any case, Emmrich seems to have come to some conclusion or realization, because on that island? He apologizes.

They both did react very emotionally, but he came at Rook with superiority and, to a certain degree, dishonesty. All fueled by his fear. So that he is the one to take the first step and apologize to Rook instead of doubling down? An important step. As I said in my last post – he NEEDED to be called out. A sweet and nice counterargument would not have had the impact Rooks raw an honest emotion hat on him.

Emmrich “Rook? Darling? I wanted to say-“

Rook “Yeah, about that argument…”

Emmrich “(Sighs) It’s no time to apologize, is it?”

And here we have the most heartbreaking line, in hindsight. “We’ll talk back home, Emmrich. I promise.”

(Narrator: but they would, in fact, not talk about it back home. Because someone would not go home.)

One fight and weeks of horror later, they find themselves in a private crypt and finally they do more than share a kiss.

Now - to the point I originally wanted to explore with this post – is this in fact their first time? (I am sorry, but my brain is a circle and nothing makes sense)

Let’s look at what evidence we have from the cut-scene.

Rook did not know he is an early riser.

That leaves two possibilities:

They never had sex up until that point.

They did have sex, but never spent the night together.

Now what does that mean?

This depends a lot on your personal Rook and how they feel about sex in general. If Rook wants to wait, or is not ready, he will absolutely accept and respect that.

But for the sake of this analysis lets go with the idea that Rook is not opposed to sex at an earlier date.

They never slept with each other

Why? He clearly was not opposed to casual relationships in the past. What would hold him back now? Especially if you recall Laces comment about them moving fast. Why not jump into the bedroom?

Now my first crack theory is that they get interrupted, like every time. (Rook interrupted The Dread Wolf, and now he cursed them to always be interrupted when they want to have some private time)

But now, in all seriousness, maybe it’s just that part of him DOES realize that this goes beyond a very unserious relationship. That they both have deeper feelings, that spark of something greater, something beautiful.

So, he holds back. He does not give his all. He is charming, he is flirty, he takes Rook on dates. But it’s all very technical. Very performative. Yes, he is a very romantic man, yes he enjoys those moments. But there is always a feeling of control.

Those moments when you see him let go a bit (that kiss beneath the eternal lovers, “I think, sometimes you indulge me”), are so beautiful and you glimpse a bit of the man behind those walls.

He has a tell, you see. (I am telling you about it further down)

But generally, he feels very much in control of himself. And to lie with Rook? To go all the way? Too dangerous. Who knows what happens in that sweet moment after la petit mort? What secrets would his lips spill?

2. They slept together, but did not spent the night together.

They do have sex, but sleep alone in their own beds. Casual sex is fine, but to fall asleep in each other’s arms? Too much. Too real. Sex okay, but sleepy post coitus cuddly? Woah, slow down your horses.

So, they have sex, preferably in Rooks bed. First, does he even have a bed? Second, it’s way easier to leave Rooks bed after the act, than throwing them out afterwards.

Oh, and how many reasons he has. Rook needs their uninterrupted sleep; they are stressed and must have proper rest. He wants to get some reading done before he retires. He needs to look after Manfred.

Oh, he is a bad liar, for sure. He is lying more to himself than to Rook. I would think that (if this is the build up to their fight) Rook realizes that he is giving poor excuses.

And the sex itself? A technical 10/10. He knows his anatomy, after all. But his heart is not really in it. He can’t allow himself to. He holds back, keeps a tight lid on his emotions. They both are well spent afterwards, but like so much else, it’s performative. Technically very well executed, but rarely do you see HIM, the real him, behind all that performance. Whenever something slips through, he reels back and closes up.

And then we are in that crypt. Rook was gone for weeks. The last thing they said that night before were words of anger. Rook called him out on his feelings and from that point on there was no possible way of lying to himself anymore. Those feelings were there. They were real. Rooks feelings were real. And those weeks spent in desperation, trying to  get them back? Those walls came crashing down.

His true face, when all the walls are gone? You see that face when Rook leads him to the coffin. There is no pretense anymore. No performance. Just him, and all his love for Rook. The amount of emotion the animation team packed into those short moments in the cutscene? Mindblowing. Who ever crafted that expression on his face? They are the GOAT. I watch this part of that scene on repeat, and it never gets old.

So, I told you about how he has a tell, yes? Okay, two actually, but we all know surprised pikachu Emmrich. In that last scene it is resolved in the most beautiful way.

He looks down, when something touches him deeply, when he goes into his feels.

A few (way to many) examples:

And the worst wet kitten look? After the fight, when Rook leaves.

Its a look of shame. Of hurt. This man is hurting so badly.

Now here at the end we have that moment when Rook leads him to the coffin. His face turns down, like before. But here he looks up at Rook. He does not turn his eyes away but looks directly at them. Ahhh my heart.

Now, think about the fact that ROOK is leading in that moment?

In those moments where Rook leads or startles him (or is simply annoying enough so that the truth slips out), you see the most emotion from him.

Rooks flirting startles him, and he has a pikachu face reaction every time.

Their first kiss? Rook leans against the monument, and leans up, telling him without words that NOW is the time for a kiss. How can he not go for a second kiss?

That moment when Rook calls Manfred “our son”? He very conveniently ignores the word “OUR” and goes in defense mode over the word “son”. But called out on his feelings for Manfred? How can he deny them? He has tears in his voice when he says how he would not exchange this moment for anything? A real, deep emotion.

In their fight Emmrich is again all technical, all performance, so logical (or what he sells himself as logic). But Rook wrestles that moment from him and takes lead, calls him out on his bullshit.

In the crypt Rook pulls him up into a kiss and then leads him to the coffin, guiding him, taking him with them.

Most of the other times he takes the lead, very much in control. But the most emotions you get from him, are those times Rooks leads, when he lets go of this tight control over himself, or he is startled in to a reaction. For all the age difference that is played up in their relationship, in the important moments Rook is the one who guides. And he follows where they lead.

Those little moans he makes? If they did have sex before, I bet he did not make those sounds then. Where they did have some incredible sex, now they are making love. Open, vulnerable. He gives in.

And then they fall asleep together. Skin to skin, arms and legs intertwined. Their hands caressing, no sound but that of their heartbeats and soft breaths. Pure and utter contentment. In that moment nothing exists but them. Can you imagine that moment he woke up? The amount of emotions he must have felt then? This need to speak those little words? Those huge little words. He does not say them, not yet. But he is almost ready.  

Finally, they stand there, on the battlefield of Elgar’nans madness. And he tells Rook. The last wall falls. Gives the most precious thing he can give to anyone.

“I love you.”

[acourtofquestions]

Kingdom of Ash Chapter 61

Chapter; Highlights (okay the entire chapter is a highlight)🤣

As requested @mysterylilycheeta I NEED TO SQUEAL IN WYVERN FANGIRL WITH YOU NOW CAUSE OH M GOODNESS THIS CHAPTER ON SO MANY LEVELS I JUST AHAKWIHUHFEJLZXBKEKA

Agony was a song in Lorcan's blood, his bones, his breath.

Every step of the horse, every leap she made over body and debris, sent it ringing afresh. There was no end, no mercy from it. It was all he could do to keep in the saddle, to cling to consciousness.

To keep his arm around Elide.

She had come for him. Had found him, somehow, on this endless battlefield.

His name on her lips had been a summons he could never deny, even when death had held him so gently, nestled beneath all those he'd felled, I, and waited for his last breaths.

And now, charging toward that too-distant keep, so far behind the droves of soldiers and riders racing for the gates, he wondered if these minutes would be his last. Her last.

She had come for him.

Lorcan managed to glance toward the dam on their right. Toward the ruk rider signaling that it was only a matter of minutes until it unleashed hell over the plain.

He didn't know how it had become weakened. Didn't care.

Still Elide kept urging the horse onward, kept them on as straight a path toward the distant keep as possible.

No ruk would come to sweep them up. No, his luck had been spent in surviving this long, in her finding him. His power would do nothing against that water.

The farthest lines of panicked soldiers appeared, and Farasha charged past them.

Elide let out a sob, and he followed the line of her sight.

To the keep gate, still open.

"Faster, Farasha!" She didn't hide the raw terror in her voice, the desperation.

Once the dam broke, it would take less than a minute for the tidal wave to reach them.

She had come for him. She had found him.

The world went quiet. The pain in his body faded into nothing. Into something secondary.

Lorcan slid his other arm around Elide, bringing his mouth close to her ear as he said, "You have to let me go."

Each word was gravelly, his voice strained nearly to the point of uselessness.

Elide didn't shift her focus from the keep ahead. "No."

That gentle quiet flowed around him, clearing the fog of pain and battle. "You have to. You have to, Elide. I'm too heavy-and without my weight, you might make it to the keep in time."

"No." The salt of her tears filled his nose.

Lorcan brushed his mouth over her damp cheek, ignoring the roaring pain in his body. The horse galloped and galloped, as if she might outrace death itself.

"I love you," he whispered in Elide's ear. "I have loved you from the moment you picked up that axe to slay the ilken." Her tears flowed past him in the wind. "And I will be with you ..." His voice broke, but he made himself say the words, the truth in his heart. "I will be with you always."

He was not frightened of what would come for him once he tumbled off the horse. He was not frightened at all, if it meant her reaching the keep.

So Lorcan kissed Elide's cheek again, allowed himself to breathe in her scent one last time. "I love you," he repeated, and began to withdraw his arms from around her waist.

Elide slapped a hand onto his forearm. Dug in her nails, right into his skin, fierce as any ruk.

"No."

There were no tears in her voice. Nothing but solid, unwavering steel.

"No," she said again. The voice of the Lady of Perranth.

Lorcan tried to move his arm, but her grip would not be dislodged.

If he tumbled off the horse, she would go with him.

Together. They would either outrun this or die together.

"Elide-"

But Elide slammed her heels into the horse's sides.

Slammed her heels into the dark flank and screamed, "FLY, FARASHA." She cracked the reins. "FLY, FLY, FLY!"

And gods help her, that horse did.

As if the god that had crafted her filled the mare's lungs with his own breath, Farasha gave a surge of speed.

Faster than the wind. Faster than death.

Farasha cleared the first of the fleeing Darghan cavalry. Passed desperate horses and riders at an all-out gallop for the gates.

Her mighty heart did not falter, even when Lorcan knew it was raging to the point of bursting.

Less than a mile stood between them and the keep.

But a thunderous, groaning crack cleaved the world, echoing off the lake, the mountains.

There was nothing he could do, nothing that brave, unfaltering horse could do, as the dam ruptured.

Rowan made himself stand there, to watch the last moments of the Lady of Perranth and his former commander. It was all he could offer: witnessing their deaths, so he might tell the story to those he encountered. So they would not be forgotten.

The roaring of the oncoming wave became deafening, even from miles away.

Still Elide and Lorcan raced, Farasha passing horse after horse after horse.

Even up here, would they escape the wave's reach? Rowan dared to survey the battlements, to assess if he needed to get the others, needed to get Aelin, to higher ground.

But Aelin was not at his side.

She was not on the battlement at all.

Rowan's heart halted. Simply stopped beating as a ruddy-brown ruk dropped from the skies, spearing for the center of the plain.

Arcas, Borte's ruk. A golden-haired woman dangling from his talons.

Aelin. Aelin was—

Arcas neared the earth, talons splaying.

Aelin hit the ground, rolling, rolling, until she uncoiled to her feet.

Right in the path of that wave.

"Oh gods," Fenrys breathed, seeing her, too.

They all saw her.

The queen on the plain.

The endless wall of water surging for her.

The keep stones began shuddering. Rowan threw out a hand to brace himself, fear like nothing he had known ripping through him as Aelin lifted her arms above her head.

A pillar of fire shot up around her, lifting her hair with it.

The wave roared and roared for her, for the army behind her.

The shaking in the keep was not from the wave.

It was not from that wall of water at all.

Cracks formed in the earth, splintering across it. Spiderwebbing from Aelin.

"The hot springs," Chaol breathed. "The valley floor is full of veins into the earth itself."

Into the burning heart of the world.

The keep shook, more violently this time.

The pillar of fire sucked back into Aelin.

She held out a hand before her, her fist closed.

As if it would halt the wave in its tracks.

He knew then. Either as her mate or carranam, he knew.

"Three months," Rowan breathed.

The others stilled.

"Three months," he said again, his knees wobbling. "She's been making the descent into her power for three months."

Every day she had been with Maeve, bound in iron, she had gone deeper. And she had not tapped too far into that power since they'd freed her because she had kept making the plunge.

To gather up the full might of her magic.

Not for the Lock, not for Erawan.

But for Maeve's death blow.

A few weeks of descent had taken her powers to devastating levels. Three months of it

…

Holy gods. Holy rutting gods.

And when her fire hit the wall of water now towering over her, when they collided —

"GET DOWN!" Rowan bellowed, over the screaming waters. "GET DOWN NOW!"

His companions dropped to the stones, any within earshot doing the same.

Rowan plummeted into his power. Plummeted into it fast and hard, ripping out any remaining shred of magic.

Elide and Lorcan were still too far from the gates. Thousands of soldiers were still too far from the gates as the wave crested above them.

As Aelin opened her hand toward it.

Fire erupted.

Cobalt fire. The raging soul of a flame.

A tidal wave of it.

Taller than the raging waters, it blasted from her, flaring wide.

The wave slammed into it. And where water met a wall of fire, where a thousand years of confinement met three months of it, the world exploded.

Blistering steam, capable of melting flesh from bone, shot across the plain.

With a roar, Rowan threw all that remained of his magic toward the onslaught of steam, a wall of wind that shoved it toward the lake, the mountains.

Still the waters came, breaking against the flames that did not so much as yield an inch.

Maeve's death blow. Spent here, to save the army that might mean Terrasen's salvation. To spare the lives on the plain.

Rowan gritted his teeth, panting against his fraying power. A burnout lurked, deadly close.

The raging wave threw itself over and over and over into the wall of flame.

Rowan didn't see if Elide and Lorcan made it into the keep. If the other soldiers and riders on the plain stopped to gape.

Princess Hasar said, rising beside him, "That power is no blessing."

"Tell that to your soldiers," Fenrys snarled, standing, too.

"I did not mean it that way," Hasar snipped, and awe was indeed stark on her face.

Rowan leaned against the battlements, panting hard as he fought to keep the lethal steam from flowing toward the army. As he cooled and sent it whisking away.

Solid hands slid under his arms, and then Fenrys and Gavriel were there, propping him up between them.

A minute passed. Then another.

The wave began to lower. Still the fire burned.

Rowan's head pounded, his mouth going dry.

Time slipped from him. A coppery tang filled his mouth.

The wave lowered farther, raging waters quieting. Then roaring turned to lapping, rapids into eddies.

Until the wall of flame began to lower, too. Tracking the waters down and down and down. Letting them seep into the cracks of the earth.

Rowan's knees buckled, but he held on to his magic long enough for the steam to lessen.

For it, too, to be calmed.

It filled the plain, turning the world into drifting mist. Blocking the view of the queen in its center.

Then silence. Utter silence.

Fire flickered through the mist, blue turning to gold and red. A muted, throbbing glow.

Rowan spat blood onto the battlement stones, his breath like shards of glass in his throat.

The glowing flames shrank, steam rippling past. Until there was only a slim pillar of fire, veiled in the mist-shrouded plain.

Not a pillar of fire.

But Aelin.

Glowing white-hot. As if she had given herself so wholly to the flame that she had become fire herself.

The Fire-Bringer someone whispered down the battlements.

The mist rippled and billowed, casting her into nothing but a glowing effigy.

The silence turned reverent.

A gentle wind from the north swept down. The veil of mist pulled back, and there she was.

She glowed from within. Glowed golden, tendrils of her hair floating on a phantom wind.

"Mala's Heir," Yrene breathed.

Down on the plain, Elide and Lorcan had halted.

The wind pushed away more of the drifting mist, clearing the land beyond Aelin.

And where that mighty, lethal wave had loomed, where death had charged toward them, nothing remained at all.

For three months, she had sung to the darkness and the flame, and they had sung back.

For three months, she had burrowed so deep inside her power that she had plundered undiscovered depths. While Maeve and Cairn had worked on her, she had delved. Never letting them know what she mined, what she gathered to her, day by day by day.

A death blow. One to wipe a dark queen from the earth forever.

She'd kept that power coiled in herself even after she'd been freed from the irons. Had struggled to keep it down these weeks, the strain enormous. Some days, it had been easier to barely speak. Some days, swaggering arrogance had been her key to ignoring it.

Yet when she had seen that wave, when she had seen Elide and Lorcan choosing death together, when she had seen the army that might save Terrasen, she'd known. She'd felt the fire sleeping under this city, and knew they had come here for a reason.

She had come here for this reason.

A river still flowed from the dam, harmless and small, wending toward the lake.

Nothing more.

Aelin lifted a glowing hand before her as blessed, cooling emptiness filled her at last.

Slowly, starting from her fingertips, the glow faded.

As if she were forged anew, forged back into her body.

Back into Aelin.

Clarity, sharp and crystal clear, filled its wake. As if she could see again, breathe again.

Inch by inch, the golden glow faded into skin and bone. Into a woman once more.

Already, a white-tailed hawk launched skyward.

But as the last of the glow faded, disappearing out through her toes, Aelin fell to her knees.

Fell to her knees in the utter silence of the world, and curled onto her side.

She had the vague sense of strong, familiar arms scooping her up. Of being carried onto a broad feathery back, still in those arms.

Of soaring through the skies, the last of the mist rippling away into the afternoon sun.

And then sweet darkness.

[violentdelightshavevioletends]

The sight eases some of the tension in my chest. No one would ever believe that scary, badass Xaden Riorson would tie anyone's shoes.

[seiwas]

₊˚⊹。so this is what it means to be in love | gojo satoru

wc: 8.9k

summary: gojo finds out what it really means to be in love. 

contains: f!reader in mind, friends to lovers (prev. slowburn), suggestive scenes, might be mature/mildly explicit? (i only mention ‘butt’ once though…), ‘being in love’ as a journey, almost like a falls in love first (you) vs. falls in love harder (gojo), they fight, they swear, character death/s mentioned, shibuya onwards spoilers, lots and lots and lots of love

a/n: this is better read after the other parts in the collection but can work as a stand alone too!, there’s a jump between this and tell me about love (show me how) so gojo would have developed a lot in the relationship since then! 

collection masterlist: conversations on love  +02 (extra). look my way, you're what i crave <- you are here + (extended scene) too good to be mine -> 3.5a. this feeling inside of me—

MINORS PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT.

this is a re-upload! (because i accidentally deleted the original one!)

Gojo catches onto love slowly.

He takes the hand you leave open just for him, and closes the space between your palms, reducing infinity. 

Maybe he’s felt it all this time without knowing; after all, love looks a lot less profound as friends in your early 20’s. 

But being in it—being in love? That’s uncharted territory. 

Gojo’s been to a lot of places, has travelled back and forth from point-to-point endlessly. He’s survived battles, a war, near-death, and cursed spirits reincarnate; he’s got eyes—two bright blue and an extra four hidden, ones that see beyond human comprehension. Unearthing this simple truth shouldn’t shake him, shouldn’t even faze him. If anything, he should have seen it coming—

Except, he doesn’t. 

It sneaks up on him, bit by bit, until he finds that being in love means getting to experience you all over again, just differently.

.

.

.

It starts with the little things. 

Gojo has known you for so long (a decade and a few years more), but has only recently begun to notice everything: how your baby hairs stick out in the humidity of summer, the way you purse your lips in thought before finally deciding on a drink to order. You play with your fingernails subconsciously, out of habit, the soft taps on your nail beds an accompaniment of anxious conversations you’ve had since you were 23. 

He knows you always blink twice before focusing on him, and it’s a mystery whether this is a recent development or something he’s just never noticed, but if you’re trying to enchant him by the flutter of your eyelashes, he wants to let you know that it’s working—except, he knows that you aren’t, because you’re just like that: a daydream without even trying. 

These aren’t new things; he’s sure he’s probably encountered them all before, but lately they’ve evolved into cute things, and there’s no hiding the slight curve of his lips every time he spots them. 

.

The sun is beaming brighter this summer, the ocean a faraway blur from the beach towel you set up under the shade. Going to the beach is never your go-to when you think of an extremely hot afternoon, but Yuuji’s been eyeing a weekend getaway since sorcerer work’s lessened significantly. 

‘It’s a good effort,’ Gojo convinces you, ‘to get everyone together again.’

And it is—you see it now: Yuuji and Megumi preparing to fling Yuuta into the water while Nobara and Maki race along the shoreline. Toge stays close to Panda but he watches fondly, eyes crinkling every now and then, happy. 

When you blink, the image of them softens—a captured memory in the heat haze. 

The only older ones here are you and Gojo; Shoko’s always disliked the stickiness of sunblock on her skin, and Ijichi’s new position has made him constantly busy. Somewhere in the distance, you can maybe envision Nanami. He wouldn’t come if you or Gojo asked, but if it were Yuuji—

You rub at your eye, resting your chin on your hand as you will your tear ducts to please, don’t cry. 

Yuuji's been smiling a lot more lately, an observation you note from the way his ears are perked up every time you look his way. It’ll never be the same as it used to be but it’s relieving to know that he can exist living as himself now. Just Yuuji. 

You hug your knees tighter to your chest, wrapping your arms around it. Your place under the coconut tree provides ample enough shade but your back still burns from Gojo haphazardly slathering sunscreen on it after hearing an ice cream stand from miles away. 

The mind is a weird place to be at times like this—split into bittersweet reminiscing and telling yourself to just take this moment and breathe, to live in it. You think about Megumi, and how you hurt for him, always will, for all that he’s lost despite every attempt to avoid it.

You should have been there for Tsumiki, you could have been there for both of them. 

Your guilt never leaves you even on days that shine as vividly as this, but perhaps that’s the silver lining—that they’re still with you, always. You can carry pieces of them to these places, and scatter them to the wind, to the sand, to the sea, and maybe to the ice cream stand Gojo’s waiting in line of, surrounded entirely by kids. They all rise to half his size, but if you squint, you think the bounce in his step makes him blend right in. 

A chuckle escapes you. 

You could sort through your memories and land on one where he looks just like this—freakishly large limbs towering over a tiny, excited Tsumiki. Back then, an ice cream stop after school consisted of your pseudo-family of four, with Megumi on your hand and Tsumiki on his leg, both gripping tightly to combat a chilly 10°C.

Things are different now, evidently. Megumi’s outgrown it, and Tsumiki is no longer here. But Gojo has stayed the same, and it’s comforting to know that he will continue to be this Satoru, your Satoru, even when some things are gone. 

You don’t realize you’ve spaced out until he waves the ice cream cone while walking towards you.  

Gojo is a sight in trunks the color of his eyes, with seahorses and starfishes in an alternating pattern of peachy-pink against cerulean blue. 

You could have sworn you asked for your own cone, but he plops down beside you holding only one. For the both of you. The side-eye you give him is almost criminal, if not deadly, but your lips twitch from the smile you’re hiding (terribly). 

He raises an eyebrow and you break character, shaking your head while laughing. 

“Did you eat the other one on the way here?” you tease, craning your neck to lick at the bottom scoop (vanilla-strawberry-vanilla, Gojo’s signature order). 

Your tongue lands dangerously close to his fingers, and he feels it, but his eyes only land on you—your lips, how they part for your tongue to glide smoothly on his–both of your–dessert. You look every bit of an angel in the soft, pale hues of your bikini, but Gojo’s thoughts are anything but saintly. 

He blushes furiously, the tips of his ears and nose bright red as he turns away from you quickly. 

“I’m fulfilling your dream of sharing an ice cream cone with me.” he tilts his chin up, proud, smirking slightly. He jokes about it knowing full well that this is his dream come true, just by the look of you. 

You stay quiet, rolling your eyes but never meanly, no. You only ever do it fondly—he knows, being on the receiving end of it one too many times. 

The beach towel scrunches when you scoot closer, looping your arm around his as you both rest your elbows on your knees. Gojo holds the cone between you two, tipping it towards you when it’s your turn to lick. 

He shouldn’t stare, shouldn’t hyperfixate, but it’s so cute how you get the tiniest bit of ice cream on the tip of your nose—as if it belongs there, soft and sweet just like the rest of you. 

You look up to find Gojo gazing at you, eyes glimmering like sunlight on the ocean, and a tiny smile that only widens when he realizes you’ve caught him red-handed. Your eyes narrow suspiciously, scrunching your nose in an effort to stop yourself from grinning. 

When Gojo looks at you this way, as if you are his favorite place rediscovered, your heart thumps furiously against your ribcage. 

“What…” you drawl, your smile impossible to hide in the lilt of your voice. 

Gojo thinks he can count every eyelash, every speck of sand dotting your face, and stil not be bored of you. He can’t stop beaming. 

Is this what it means to be in love with you? 

“Nothing.” he replies, almost giggling, a little bashful but with every inch of sincerity. You know that smile, the only one that holds every ounce of Satoru. Gojo smiles big and wide to everyone else, but this small one you know, is reserved just for you. 

He leans in, lips coming closer to brush against the tip of your nose. Your eyes fall shut, instinctively, and the pink dot is wiped clean, a hint of strawberry dancing on his palate. He’s done this more times than he can count, has gotten this near to know that close will never be close enough, but you still jolt a bit—PDA has never been your thing. 

When he pulls away, you continue to stare at each other, locked in a gaze until the ice cream begins to drip down his fingers and onto the beach towel. It misses his trunks by a hair and you both laugh at how he belatedly tries to escape it even though it’s already there. 

It’s indescribable, this moment, seeing you in slow motion, laughing as bright as the sun—the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. It takes every bit of him to look away so he can wipe his hands clean from the dripping dessert.

You hand him a packet of wipes and beckon him to sit in front of you after. Squeezed onto the palm of your hand is a copious amount of sunscreen you plan to slather all over him. A touch-up, if you will. 

Gojo has sensitive skin, pale as bond paper and burns just as quickly. The high points of his face are already reddening, warm to the touch when you dab at them with sunscreen. 

You’re so near, so close, sitting cross-legged in front of him with your knees touching his. The tip of your tongue sticks out just slightly as you focus on his skin. 

Even though he knows, he still wonders what your lips would taste like, SPF chapstick and crumbly bits from the wafer cone. He wonders what your eyelashes would feel like, fluttering over his own. 

The light casts a halo around you and he thinks it’s fitting for all that you do. You pamper him like this, slather love all over his chest and back, massage it in so it dissolves into him—and he feels it so deep that he tastes it.

How can your love be so sweet? He thinks, sighing as your fingers work sunscreen up his neck from his collarbone. You always apply his skincare like this: upwards, gently—‘no tugging, please!’—something about keeping his baby face even when he’s old. 

“You should join them,” you mumble, rubbing more product onto the nape of his neck. You’re leaning over his shoulder, neck brushed against his cheek. 

Gojo hums, watching everyone from a distance. It’s been a while since he’s had a day like this. 

“But maybe after 30 minutes, so the sunblock doesn’t wash off. You’re already burning.” you note, coming back to sit. 

Of course, he’s already burning. How can he not when the sun is right in front of him? 

.

You join everyone for a game of beach volleyball in the sunset of the afternoon. You’re transported back to high school, the last time you did this—you and Satoru against Shoko and Suguru, with Haibara keeping score. 

From the way Gojo’s eyes are glossed over, you can tell he’s thinking about it too, the memory having seared itself into your brains forever, it seems. 

Being paired together should feel familiar—the same, but it doesn’t—isn’t, because Gojo can’t concentrate, sneaking glances to notice all the little things about you that he never used to. Your skin shines from the combination of sweat and sunscreen, and when you crash into him it’s both sticky and slippery. He should really ask for a time-out before you blind him completely. 

You look unfairly good in your bikini, too good he can barely hear you calling for him; between the ocean and his blood rushing, any other sound is drowned out into nothing. 

Maki and Yuuji absolutely demolish the both of you, reaching 15 first in the final set. Gojo blames the loss on you of course, even though he’s missed every pass you’ve sent his way and netted 60% of his spikes. 

And maybe it technically is your fault—you and your (very distracting) little things. But it’s entirely on him that he’s fallen for it, fallen for you as much as this. 

.

.

.

Gojo thinks of love differently when he sees a picture of himself and all it does is remind him of you.

There’s a photo tucked safely in his wallet (saved and set as his homescreen too). Shoko snorts when she walks in on him printing it, all six-foot-three of him hunched over the small inkjet printer in the faculty room. 

“It’s all digital now, Satoru,” she scoffs, taking a puff on her cigarette. 

Gojo doesn’t say anything even though he knows it’s true, too focused on watching the printer push out the two-by-three inch image he’s about to cut into. 

Print photos aren’t as important anymore when cloud storage spaces are just as–if not more–accessible, but Gojo is admittedly sentimental despite every front he puts up to hide it. 

He’s kept every single gift you’ve given him and camouflaged it as decoration in his office, and the family drawing 10-year-old Tsumiki made is still folded between the pages of a self-help book Yaga had given him when he first decided to teach. 

When every moment is experienced so vividly, seen through a muddle of infinite energies, there are those he wishes could stay still—ones that take up space to remind him: ‘this is real, it happened, and here is proof that it did’. 

He already has one of all of you, fresh-faced and barely pushing the peaks of youth at 16. A tangle of arms wrapped around each other—one of his gripping tightly on Suguru, and the other hanging loosely over you. Utahime is crouched in front, holding the hand you’ve placed on her shoulder while pulling Shoko into a semi-squish-semi-hug (because out of the four of you, Shoko is her favorite—completely valid; if given the choice, she’d be your favorite too). Nanami and Haibara stay close to Suguru, squatting low to balance the photo, and Haibara is smiling, the ever cheery grin Suguru loves to dote on, while Nanami is Nanami—sharp features and a serious gaze that you all know he’ll grow into someday, handsome with age. 

For the longest time, Gojo has kept that photo hidden, locked away in the drawer of his bedside table as if keeping it there means the memory will stay guarded forever—untouched, unspoiled, unruined. 

It would have stayed there if you didn’t stumble upon it while looking for his painkillers during another one of his skull-crushing migraines. 

You approach him with the image hesitantly, eyes damp and glossy. Years have faded the colors ever so slightly, but the corners remain crisp from being stowed away neatly. You say sorry, that you shouldn’t have looked through his things, but you remember the moment it was taken so fondly: a visit to the Kyoto campus on a one-day break to train with other students. 

Gojo has many theories about time and the multitude of spaces it takes—like how a person can exist at different points in time, disparate at each instance, and still take up the same big chunk of space. The opposite can be true too, that someone can live finitely (just once) and occupy spaces in every place you look: the face of a passerby down the road, a sign at the corner of the street, or even a photograph that immortalizes people you once knew. 

He only shares when you ask, aware that he tends to be a bit of a nerd about it whenever it’s brought up, but you don't mind. You like listening to it all, no matter how insightful or confusing they are for you to make sense—a version of him not many get to witness. His explanations are comprehensible for the most part, except—

When Gojo tells you that he’s kept the image in his drawer, hidden, because exposing it to the space-time that exists now will erase every reminder that it ever happened, you hug him tightly. 

Your sniffles are heard from the way his head is tucked into the crook of your neck, your fingers gripping strands of his hair in empathy. 

He considers your near-tears as a sign that the memory is long gone, decayed into the brittling tragedy of reality. But you smile, the corners of your lips bittersweet as you express disbelief that he’s kept it all this time. 

You tell him delicately that some precious things are meant to be celebrated, put out to be remembered—to be experienced. 

And it becomes clearer to him then, by the look in your eyes and remembrance soft-spoken, that what good is a photo unseen? 

What good is a love unwitnessed?

When you gift him a frame a year after finding the photo, he hangs it by the wall next to his office door. The image is painful to look at, always has been (even when it was hidden in his drawer)—during Suguru’s defection, and death anniversaries especially. 

The recent one for Nanami was heavy; the first time he’s ever been able to process grief fully. 

Gojo can argue that it grows more difficult every time he catches a glimpse of it from his desk, but you have a way of honoring pain that doesn’t make it sting as bad—that turns it into a reminder of a love that was once there, of feelings that hurt as evidence that someone cared. 

Now, he wants another photo printed, one of just the two of you. Not because it hurts, but because he wants this precious thing to be remembered and seen—for this love to be witnessed too. 

It’s self-timered, snapped under the shade of a cherry blossom tree in full bloom. The picture is far from perfect: your eyes bright and mouth open mid-fear of his phone falling off the bridge railing. 

You may look a teensy bit funny, but Gojo will always find it cute. Anyone can see it, at how he looks at you in that moment—like you are every bit worthy of the distance travelled and seasons waited. He gazes at you fondly, eyes holding clear skies and pink lips curling into a small smile. 

It’s cheesy, but if you ask him what he thinks about this year’s flowers, he’ll tell you none of them (not even any of them combined) could compare to you. The cherry blossoms could be gone and he’d still see them everywhere (in the softness of your lips, the fullness of your cheeks, the radiance you emit when you are truly, solely content and happy). 

He remembers that afternoon well: the spring breeze that jolts his phone sideways, his hand resting on your lower back, unseen in the image. There’s no real reason for visiting the blossoms on this day of all days, but Gojo doesn’t believe in coincidences, and he’s counted down exactly to a year since you both had your first kiss.

It’s so silly, because he’s never thought of things like this before. He knows you probably don’t think much of it either considering that neither of you have made anything official yet since. 

And he feels a little stupid for that, honestly. 

You have a drawer of his clothes for the nights he stays over (more often than not), and even though you go on these little trips that are so obviously dates, you both still just tell everyone you’re ‘hanging out’.

He’s not fooling anyone here, not when he looks at you then with the feeling of his chest expanding, stretching to accommodate the overflows of his affection since learning the ways to love you—tenderness caught in little pixels of eternity.  

When Gojo goes through all 179 photos from that afternoon, he filters out the ones to delete and picks this one out especially—favorites and resizes it to fit his home screen and his wallet too. 

There’s something about the look on his face that reminds him of every time he’s caught the same one on you. 

He slides the photo into the little sleeve behind his credit card, catching himself smiling—this must be because of you, he thinks, and the bits and pieces of yourself that have somehow become part of him slowly, sneaking into him unknowingly.

If this is what it means to be in love, with you, then he’s fucked. 

Don’t you know that he’s insatiable? These traces of you will only make him want the whole of you. 

.

You find the photo while he rushes to the restaurant restroom. On ‘hang out’s like this, you insist on splitting the bill, but Gojo has always been stubborn and you’ve learned that you can never argue. 

He hands you his wallet to pay with his card, and when you slide it out, the photo falls. It’s face down on the floor when you pick it up, fully expecting it to be a photocard of some idol you know Gojo follows. 

But it isn’t, and your smile widens. 

When Gojo comes back, you’re looking up at him affectionately, biting your lips as if to stop yourself from speaking—the same way he always does. 

It’s funny because, slotted between your two fingers is the photo he’s kind of flustered you found, but he has no time to be embarrassed when he sees a little bit of himself in the way you’re staring at him right now.

.

.

.

“So, Yuuji asked if we were together.” 

You quirk an eyebrow, looking up at Gojo from the pile of laundry you’ve begun folding on your bed. He emerges from the bathroom, ruffling his hair with a towel. 

Over the past year, Gojo has spent his weekends off with you, sleeping over and traipsing around your room in his pajama set as if he’s lived here just as long as you. 

You snort as you fold, amused that this is even a question to begin with. Yuuji’s always been known for being exceptionally dense, but you didn’t think it was this bad. Gojo was especially touchy with you during that beach trip, and you’re sure Megumi and Nobara have caught up to let him know by now, somehow. 

“What made him ask?” 

“I think he wants to take you away.” Gojo teases, wiggling his eyebrows as he throws the towel on the chair across your vanity. 

You roll your eyes, still sweetly, indulging him, “Sure.” 

It’s now a running joke that Gojo’s threatened about Yuuji stealing you; you’ve always had a soft spot for bright eyes and even brighter souls and Yuuji is as close to that as anyone can get.

It’s not like that though, it could never be; Yuuji is just like your Megumi—the two boys you want to protect and care for in hopes of treating them better than their lives have ever. 

Gojo feels the same, you know, otherwise he wouldn’t have guided them as much as he has (despite his... questionable ways). Still, your hands have always been gentler, kinder—and though shorter, have always outstretched much farther than his. 

You have a way of inching yourself into people’s lives that just fits. He’s experienced it first-hand, can’t even dare to imagine what his life would be like if you didn’t. 

He walks across the room to you, bed dipping as he steadies a knee before draping his entire body over your shoulders. 

Now that you think about it, it makes sense that Yuuji’s confused, because Gojo has always been extremely touchy to everyone, just never when the feelings mattered, with you. Kiss him once, though, and it snowballs into an avalanche of firsts. And what he’s about to do right now, he thinks, might just trigger another one to form all together. 

“As if I’d let him.” he mumbles right by your ear, chin tucked by the crook of your neck. It tickles when he speaks, his nose poking at your cheeks. 

“Who put you in charge?” you scoff jokingly, unfazed. 

He moves away from you in disbelief, mouth open as he stares at you mindlessly folding.

To be fair, he can’t fault you. You aren’t technically official even though you have kind-of-been for a little over a year. There’s no particular reason, just that you haven’t talked about it—part because you wanted him to approach it whenever he was ready, and also, because it just never seemed like a priority.

You laugh as he stares at you, stunned into silence, the pout on his face borrowed from all the versions of yours. 

There’s no point of contention because you’ve only ever loved Gojo since you were 17. 

“Kidding,” you kiss his cheek as an apology. 

“Don’t even joke about that.” he huffs, you’re starting to take after him a little too much.

“You’re mine.” he murmurs after, arms wrapped around your waist and legs stretched out wide to encase you. 

He says it as if it is the simplest truth. 

Your heartbeat quickens, too loud and pounding; this is the first time you’ve ever heard this from him, and a part of you thinks this is just another one of those flirty side-comments he makes on a whim.

“You tell him that?” you hope he can’t hear your voice shake as he nuzzles your neck, your fingers trembling on the pair of socks you have yet to roll. 

He hums, hugging you tighter. He waits for you to finish folding before letting you lean against him, offering his fingers for you to fiddle with. They’re cold, long and slender, veiny just by a bit, and he always gives them to you like they’re yours, you like to think. 

There’s an inhale, a breath of hesitation, before he exhales.  

“Something like it.” 

You don’t say anything, only nod, and it’s nerve-wracking. He’s so nervous even though he knows he doesn’t have to be because it’s just you. And there’s no need to doubt what you’re feeling. But—

“You are though,” he pauses, “right?” 

He has to be sure. This is a testament to you more than himself that he’s learned to ask instead of bulldozing you like he does with everyone else. Who else will he pick that up from but you? 

There’s hesitation you hear that you think shouldn’t be there anymore; the fact that you’ve given so much of yourself to this man and he still thinks you’re unsure—

“‘Cause I’m yours.” he speaks, clearly, definitively, before you can even answer. And you know—you’ve known ever since that party years ago. A simple admittance: ‘I’m taken’. 

You turn around to face him, eyes shimmering. 

Can he see? You’re meant for him only. 

All you’ve ever wanted was to love him; everything else he’s done up until this point is already more than you could ever imagine. The labels can only do so much to capture the gravity of what you are to one another: years of history unpacked into a mishmash of feelings overlapping—it’s a lot.

You sit cross legged in front of him, your knees touching his. He’s biting his lips again, an anxious habit you want to kiss away. 

Gojo has proven far too much of himself already that he’s serious with you—your kind-of-confession, that confrontation, and the days after, all the ways you’ve both learned to love each other. 

You cup his cheeks. 

A single word cannot possibly define what he is to you.

“I mean, o-only if you want me to be.” he adds on, blue eyes darting back and forth.

Gojo runs his mouth almost all the time and you’ve never heard him stutter once in his life. Except now. 

He’s endearing like this—a version of him you are slowly discovering. 

“Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” you finally say, and it’s a relief. 

He feels good, releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His arms pull you closer, hugging you tighter as you both smile. 

He kisses you once, twice, maybe a million times all over, travelling across your eyelids, the center of your forehead, down to the corners of your mouth before landing a real one right on your lips. 

Gojo always looks pretty but he looks prettiest like this, worry-free, with love in his eyes and nothing but pure happiness in the way he holds you. 

He won’t tell you that Yuuji asked about your anniversary, not if you were together. 

At least now he has an answer.

Gojo stares at you like he wants to say something, a thank you maybe, but he bites his lips instead. No words will ever amount to this feeling, he thinks, of his chest expanding and heart hammering. So he kisses you with all of it, trailing soft smacks of his lips down your neck, tickling. The tips of his hair are still wet from his shower, leaving droplets on your skin as he nips. 

You laugh—sprinkled in love. 

“S-stop!” you push him away, “Satoru,” giggling, “tickles!” 

“We have to consummate it now.” he whispers, grabbing you by the waist to place you on his lap, squeezing your sides while nibbling at your neck playfully. 

You roll your eyes at his antics, “It’s not–” you laugh out loud when he pinches your hips, “–marriage, Satoru.” 

Oh, if only you knew, he thinks. 

The image you’ve planted in his head is dangerous when he’s this drunk on love right now. 

More decades, more years spent with you? In another life, or maybe even in this one, if time permits, he wouldn’t mind making that come true. 

.

It’s crazy how much things can change—for all his life, he’s ruled out the possibility of love ever taking root in his ribcage. 

You’ve managed to make it feel so easy, so good, even when he was shit-terrified not knowing how to love you like he should. 

Now, he thinks, how could he ever miss out on love this way? A love this good, with you? 

.

.

.

For all of Gojo’s life, he’s never had to be anyone else—always the strongest, the only one. He’s never had to change anything about himself, because what’s there to improve when you’re already the best?

In a way, this is why it works with you. You’ve taken him as he is, all the good and ugly and never asked for anything more than what he can give. 

But being this in love with you—it’s foreign. There are pieces within him shifting, all on their own without him knowing. 

How he wants to be better, for you. To be good enough to deserve all of it, and give back more of it too. 

Gojo doesn’t realize how much love has changed him until he feels it uprooting every insecurity he never even knew existed, pulling it all up to the surface. 

When things are going great, it’s hard to imagine them ever going the other way. 

.

.

.

“You don’t mean that.” you mumble, voice trembling.

Gojo stares at you, at your lips quivering and the fists clenched to your sides. There are tears collecting in pools by your eyes, and if there’s anything else he hates in this world, it’s seeing you cry. 

So why?

Why couldn’t he just shut up? 

“Please tell me you don’t mean that,” you take a step closer, gripping the edge of his jacket, “Satoru.” your voice cracks, begging. 

It’s an out-of-body experience when Gojo registers that he’s fucked up, and he sees himself now, bird’s-eye-view, and thinks this is the worst thing he could do to you after all you’ve been through. 

“I need some time to think,” he says, finally, the only words coming out of his mouth—but he can’t hear himself speaking. 

He should have said sorry, taken it all back, he thinks, not make it worse by leaving. 

He heads for the door, heart crunching under each footstep away from you. 

Is this what being in love’s supposed to do? Break his heart while yours is bleeding?

.

You’re too good for Gojo, in every sense of the word—and he knows it.

You are far too kind, far too generous, far too patient with him. You give him more love than he deserves, definitely, and admittedly enough, with how he is, you have been settling for the bare minimum but that’s on him, not on you. 

He had no right speaking to you the way he did, hurting you with accusations born from insecurities he’s never before had to deal with. 

He knows it. 

Who accuses you of ‘meddling’ as if everything out of you doesn’t come from the goodness of your heart? Of provoking you with ‘chasing the bare minimum’ as if he isn’t aware that that’s all he’s given you to work with? 

Utahime was right in telling you to be careful with him, and he doesn’t blame her for it. He would have done the same. 

He should have told you there was something brewing inside of him already—should have talked to you instead of bursting from all the things people have been saying lately.

Gojo hasn’t spoken to you in three days and the feeling this compares to is worse than anything else he’s ever had to face. 

.

He knocks on your door at night, a little past dinner and too early for bedtime. They echo loudly within the walls of your apartment, and you drag yourself up despite your obvious look of heartbreak. 

Gojo hears your footsteps and everything moves entirely too slowly; the lock, taking far too long to turn, the gap between the door and the door frame widening incrementally. Even your face comes into view as if in stop motion, frame-by-frame, gradually.

His hands are in his pockets, lips bitten to bleed. He’s pretty sure he isn’t breathing when he takes you in—puffy eyes and a sweater that belongs to him. 

(Is it sick of him to say that he still finds you beautiful this way? Even when you look every bit the part of heartache?) 

Gojo didn’t have a plan coming here, didn’t have a list of things to say, just the feeling that he needed to talk to you, see you, even just be around you today. 

When your eyes meet, it’s quiet. You stare into him for one–two–three– (Can you tell that they’re watery? Can you see they’re puffed up too?) and then open the door wider to let him in. You head straight to the kitchen, never once looking back while dragging your feet. 

He stands outside a few seconds more, waiting for you to take it back—but you don’t, so he walks in and closes the door.

He’s been in your apartment plenty of times before, has practically lived in it by how often he stays over. But this is the first time he’s felt wholly out of place, not knowing where to put himself, just standing in the space between your kitchen counter and the living room awkwardly.

You push a glass of water towards him and he can’t stop staring at it—at you, at your fingers that he wants nothing more now but to hold. 

Even with all his faults, all his wrongs, you open your arms for him to walk into, allow him in as if he didn’t just hurt you. 

And he wants to cry, at the fact that this place still feels like home, at how it’ll always feel that way wherever you go. 

How are you still treating him so kindly? Still taking care of him? A glass of water is one too many for someone like him. 

You turn away from him to pour yourself your own then he speaks—

“You should be angry with me.” Gojo says softly, but you hear it. 

You pause, tilting the pitcher back upright. 

“Why aren’t you angry at me?” he says, a little louder this time, more desperate, more pleading.

Why are you never angry at me? he wants to ask. 

You turn around to face him, putting the pitcher down.

Under your kitchen lights, his eyes shine like sunlight on the ocean, waves lapping on the shore. You think it might be a trick of the light, but his lips tremble when he closes them, as if he can’t speak any more. 

It’s just as you’ve said, there’s no point being angry with him when your heart can never take it. 

You always give Gojo the benefit of the doubt, and though he’s hurt you—though this might be the most painful thing he’s told you yet, you know that he’s been under immense pressure lately. Stressed beyond belief from negotiating with the government on policies for jujutsu society. 

It’s not an excuse, you know, but Gojo always has his reasons. He'll tell you eventually, you believe that much. 

You give him a sad smile, struggling to stop your tears from spilling. His fists are clenched too tightly, nails digging in hard enough to bleed. He hasn’t moved since coming in, so you push yourself off the kitchen sink towards him. 

You take his hands first, unfurl each finger pressed upon his palm and rub gently. He cries quietly for a love so pure that only you would attempt to ease his hurt despite the pain he’s dealt you. 

You tiptoe second, pulling the sleeves of your (his) sweater before reaching up to wipe his eyes—beautiful and blue just like you’ve always known, droplets of the ocean at your fingertips. 

“Be mad,” he whispers, “please.” squeezing his eyes tightly. 

It hurts more when you aren’t, he thinks. 

His hand comes up to grip your wrist, bringing it down to cup his cheek. You stroke your thumb across his skin, soothing, loving, and that’s all it takes for him to pull you in. He hugs you tight, arms wrapped around you, clutching. 

He wouldn’t deserve you. In any life.

Gojo’s never cried this much before, head pressed to your neck as you rub circles along his back, shushing him softly. You start sniffling too, small at first until it turns into soft hiccups when you finally cry. 

Your grip on him tightens. 

“‘M sorry.” he mumbles, lips moving against your neck. 

“‘S–” you hiccup, “–okay.” 

“Stop saying that when it’s not,” he presses against you, nuzzling your neck, “I hurt you.”

“Then don’t–” another hiccup, “–call yourself–” hic, “–bare minimum.” you cry harder. 

Gojo knows your heart and the tears that leak out of your eyes; he knows they hold pain for more than just yourself but every single person in your life. You, crying now, is evidence of that truth—shedding tears for him not just because of him when he thinks he’s the bare minimum. 

This must be what it means to be truly, deeply loved, he thinks, to have someone know what you mean without even having to speak it—to know your heart, and all the good and bad parts of it. 

“I don’t think I’m good enough to you,” he admits, pulling himself away from you.

When he sees your face, wet, with your nose and eyes puffed up from crying, he decides that he hates it more than anything else. Makes it sick to his stomach, even. 

He cradles your cheeks, thumbs wiping away your tears. A whole hand of his could cover your face entirely, but he always, without fail, holds you delicately. 

“That’s not–” hic, “–true.” you gather your breathing, holding him by the wrists as he presses his forehead against yours. “Only I get to decide that. Not anyone, not you.” 

You kiss his lips, a small peck before nudging his nose with yours. You soothe each other this way—in the quiet, swaying to your own tune. 

“You’re good to me plenty, Satoru.” you whisper, once both of you have settled. 

He opens his eyes to look at you, smiling sadly as he cradles your face, “I didn’t mean it.” 

Whatever he told you that day, taking it all out on you.

“I know.” you mumble, nodding. 

You always do. 

.

.

.

Gojo has always loved you, in some type of way—as friends, colleagues, a-little-bit-more-but-less-than what you are today. 

But how he feels right now? It’s kind of ridiculous, borderline out-of-hand, and it’s driving him insane. 

It’s such a simple, ordinary thing for you to do: you rush up to him, phone in hand and scroll to some video you found online. You’re so excited, a bounce in your step as if he’s the first and only person you want to show this to. Your eyes shine bright with a megawatt smile to match, and you’re talking so, so fast, completely lit up like fireworks in the making. 

He knows you think that he’s listening but, he couldn’t care less about it honestly. Sorry. Not when the words go in one ear and out the other, because all that registers is how adorable you are, giddy and everything. 

He makes a joke—completely unrelated, but you find it so funny. Then you’re laughing, full on smacking his arm, doubled over, arms hugging your stomach, guffawing. Your feet are kicking the air as you sink deeper into your couch. Gojo’s standing in front of you, post-enactment of some impression he made, and he’s frozen in place but warm all over. 

Seeing you laugh like this, smile like this, being so pretty when you’re happy, the pounding in his chest goes crazy. 

This isn’t the first time he’s made you laugh; he does it all the time. You almost always roll your eyes and chuckle, sometimes giggle with your eyes squinting and laugh lines creasing. But it might be the first time it’s like this: with you so bright, more than the sun and every other star in the sky. 

And he thinks, this is all he could ever want—to make you happy for the rest of his life. 

There’s too much of this feeling inside of him, clawing at his throat, itching to get out. He’s filled with it, has been filled with it for so long that it’s starting to overflow and if he doesn’t say this now he might just—

“I’m so in love with you.” 

Gojo breathes it out, as if finally releasing it after all this time. You don’t think he processes it because he just stands there, in the middle of your living room, staring at you. 

Your laughter dies with maybe a little part of you too (in a good way). 

He looks so sweet, so sincere, and you see his heart, so big, so honest and pure. You get flashbacks of every Satoru you have ever known, at 15, 17, 23, to now. 

It’s not like either of you don’t know; it’s plain as day, how you feel about each other—and you would have been fine going on without ever having to hear him speak of love this way.

But hearing it now, it’s far better than anything you could have imagined. 

You stare at him. He stares at you. 

He’s shocked too. 

You don’t want to embarrass him, especially if he didn’t mean to say it, so you chuckle, moving on to break the quiet.

“I can unhear it if you want,” you offer shyly, genuinely. 

Gojo looks at you, confused, before a pout makes its way onto his face. You sit up on your couch, playing with your fingers as you look up at him.

Sure, he practically blurted it out, maybe in the heat of the moment, or something, but it doesn’t make it any less true. And he’s realizing that the only thing he really wants from this—

“Though…” you continue, biting your lips, “I think I’m pretty in love with you too.” 

The little laugh you make has him, completely. 

The grin that breaks on his face is infectious. Gojo, who is normally so pale, is now pink all over—red by his ears and down his neck. There’s a sparkle in his eyes that can be found in yours too. 

This moment right here feels like first loves—teens first saying ‘I love you’. 

“You think?” he asks incredulously, joking, “So you’re not sure?” he walks closer to you. 

You laugh, candy for his cravings, and take his hand to kiss each knuckle before guiding it to your cheek. He runs a thumb across your skin, affection on his fingertips. His index finger hooks itself under your chin, tilting it to rest on his stomach as you look up at him. 

A kiss to your forehead, tenderly, gently. 

The best part about being in love? 

He gets to be in it with you. 

.

.

.

Gojo can’t sleep. 

It’s not anything new—4 hours on average, maybe 6 on a good night. He doesn’t remember a time when sleep ever came easily.

Sleeping with you, beside you, has helped, but it’s never solved the problem. You’ve gotten him to a full 8 hours before, but never consecutively, and he’s starting to think that if you can’t do it, nothing ever will. 

Your sleeping positions change every night, but they always come out as some variation of hugging. Gojo firmly believes that he might as well sleep alone if you aren’t touching. 

Tonight, you’re spooning, arm slung over his waist and palm right on his chest, fingers interlaced with his. Your legs stay tangled together with soft puffs of air blowing at the back of his neck. 

He opens his eyes and checks the clock by his bedside. 3:24 a.m. 

He sighs deeply, carefully maneuvering his body to slip away from you. You used to wake up the first few times this happened, worried about an emergency or some kind of accident. Being a sorcerer trains you for things like that. 

You’ve always known Gojo had bad sleep, just not the severity of it. 

You don’t wake up to it as much as you used to, having grown accustomed to it after more nights together, but on the off-chance that you do, Gojo always kisses your forehead gently as if to tell you that it’s okay, you can go back to sleep.

You don’t wake up now, thankfully, so he grabs his phone and heads for the kitchen. There’s a sinking feeling in his chest tonight, far heavier than others he’s woken up from. He pours himself a glass of water before hopping on the kitchen counter, ready to sort through the bowl of candy sitting on the island. 

The date today is October 31. Halloween. It’s been a few years since Shibuya but he still feels like he’s suffocating. 

In the train station. In the box.

In front of Suguru—or Kenjaku, both, whatever. 

He’s gone to therapy, just like you wanted, for the both of you, and grieving has been an interesting concept to wrap his head around since.

But no matter how much he trains his mind to deal with it, his body will always remember the feeling. 

He snaps out of it when he hears your footsteps padding on the floorboards. Your figure emerges from the hallway, bed hair and eyes still sleepy, squinting. 

“Satoru?” you rub at your eyes, his sleep shirt entirely too long as the sleeves extend past your fingertips. The extra fabric swings in the air. “You okay?” you whisper, approaching him. 

Waking you up is the last thing he could ever want right now, but it’s hard when you’re also the only one he can talk about this with. When you know what it’s like to grieve everyone too.  

He has every intention of brushing it off, of telling you to go to sleep, but one look at you—one look at him and it’s like you just know. He doesn’t even need to explain. 

It isn’t hard to piece together, knowing what today is and seeing him choked up the way he is. You tell Gojo it’s your intuition, but he has a tell, and maybe you’re the only one who knows it. 

His eyes—they’ve always given him away. There’s the Satoru you know, then a Satoru that’s far removed, gone away. You can spot it though, the moment it loses its sparkle, the moment it turns from blue to gray. 

He feels a little selfish sharing this with you; he’s not the only one who’s lost people. You have too. 

You stand in front of him and offer a sad smile, outstretching your arms as an invite, as if to tell him: you can stay here for as long as you’d like. 

He moves into your space slowly, hopping off the kitchen island to slump against you. 

He doesn’t hug you yet, not immediately, hands still shaky at the memory. You rub his back, hooking your chin on his shoulder as he bends down to rest his head by your cheek. 

You take his hand delicately, bringing them to your lips so you can kiss every fingertip gently. When you finish, he wraps his arms around you, squeezing tightly. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” you whisper, like a hushed secret. 

And he wants to, but also, there isn’t anything else to say that you don’t know already. You were there the first few times he had therapy, and when he felt comfortable enough to go alone, he told you all about it anyway right after. 

If there’s a secret to fighting the Gojo Satoru with guaranteed victory, they’d only have to get to you—he’d be gone, entirely. You know too much of him, own too many parts of him already. 

He chuckles dryly, vibrating by your neck. A step back and he’s leaning against the counter, bringing you closer by the hip, thumb stroking. He tucks away strands of your hair behind your ear, flattening down the bird’s nest that it is from your sleep. 

“Nothing you haven’t heard before, pretty.”

Gojo’s been more tender lately, especially in the night when his piercing eyes turn soft, gazing. 

You pout, the same one since you were 16. You don’t know if you’ll ever get used to it, the way he calls you such sweet, honeyed things; you’ve only recently begun to call him ‘baby’ and that alone has been enough to make your head spin. 

Still, he wouldn’t be your Satoru if he didn’t surprise you. With how he is now, it’s hard to imagine a time when this was all so difficult for him, when even the slightest bit of your hands touching was challenging. 

It’s hard to imagine that both of you are here now, living in the same space, by the kitchen at night, with the contents of your hearts memorized—the sorrow, the pain, the joy, all the love, every single one. 

He kisses your nose, and that’s comfort alone. 

This is his reality now, with you, and it’s safe.

It’s good. 

“Do you want to make waffles?” he hears you mumble, running your hands over his chest, soothing.  

The clock reads 3:56 a.m. Early breakfast doesn’t sound so bad, could also be a midnight snack.

(But he knows what you’re doing). 

You don’t tell him to try to go back to sleep, never forcing anything you know he can’t do. Instead, you offer yourself to stay up with him, keep him company. Whatever he needs. 

(And he loves that about you). 

.

.

.

Gojo will forever argue that you might have fallen first, but he’s definitely fallen harder. 

He could map out every single location he’s laid his love on—your eyes, the flutter of your eyelashes, the curve of your nose, and your lips, the same ones he’s kissed and nipped, bitten until he gets his fill. 

Your neck and chest—a canvas for his desires. He glides a finger across your collarbone before lightly tapping on it thrice. 

There’s the little dip at the base of your spine, and your thighs—

Oh, he could get lost in them. 

He knows. 

He has. Many times.

There’s an animal inside of him that only answers to you. 

When you kiss his neck and grip his back, soft moans by his ear—short and sweet. He’s a gone man, wholly devoted to you, and you only. 

You breathe his name out, “Satoru,” raspily, and he sinks into you—everything, all that he has spilling in the depths of you. 

How can he possibly contain all this love?

It’s scary how so much of him already belongs to you, all these years—how you’ve been carrying pieces of him, all versions of him throughout every birthday, every moment you’ve touched his life and have it irrevocably changed. 

.

“Are you happy?” he mumbles by your ear, voice deep and lazy. 

It’s the morning, sunlight barely peeking through your curtains. Gojo hugs you from behind, arms caging you as he traces little hearts on your sides. 

“Right now?” you whisper back, chuckling, “That’s not fair.” 

He nips at your ear, a small bite, before you turn to face him.

He supposes you’re right, it isn’t fair to ask that now; both your bodies are sore, well-exhausted, and littered with conversations on love. 

Gojo is pretty in the mornings just like he is all the time, his hair lending well to sunlight as much as it does to the moonlight. And his eyes—they shine a different shade during the day compared to the night. 

You though, you’re an entirely different creature of your own: a goddess in bedsheets and pillows, wrapped in immaculate white.  

You giggle when you face him, nose-to-nose, and he pulls you in tighter, grips you by the butt to slot you in right where you belong. 

Are you happy with me? 

He wonders, and you can read it—his eyes his greatest tell. You kiss him tenderly, lips moving gently against his. Then you smile, sincerely, before whispering—

“Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

this is a re-upload! (because i accidentally deleted the original one!) thank you notes: to @stellamancer for being there since the very start!! col wouldn’t even exist without you!! you’re every much part of the creation of this as i am :'), to @crysugu for being so ever supportive, cheering me on all the time!! and for loving col reader as much as i do!! and to you reading this and everyone else who has loved this collection so far!!  of course!! a credit to all the writers whose works have inspired the way i view and write gojo: to @seravphs for teen dad!gojo and cruel summer influences, i draw so much of the way i understand these characters and their dynamics from you and your beautiful way of writing them and i hope my interpretation gives justice to that!!, to @augustinewrites for keeping up with the fushigojos, this series and the way you write them, with so much love, has always pushed for me to view gojo that way!! you’ve inspired so much of my understanding that gojo does believe in love and that when he falls in it, he falls in it hard!!

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[marsprincess889]

Intuitive messages

Random and symbolic. This may or may not be for you, trust your intuition.

Disclaimer: I start to channel with images, feelings/vibes and random symbols, then I see storylines and then other messages come too. These might be ??? to you in the beginning but please, trust that if you truly think that you picked your group correctly, then there is, most likely, a message there for you, even if it's not obvious at first.

Note: I have a lot of love for all of these three groups and collectives, a lot😭 I think we'd get along really well irl if it's not weird to say. Sending all of you compassion and love. Wish all of you luck🤍

Picture 1:

Signs: lizard, iguana, Slavic, name Irina, "The Great"(2020-2023), candles, Eastern Orthodoxy, Orthodox Christmas(happy late Orthodox Christmas guys🤍), "Slavic bimbo" aesthetic, goose/geese, pine tree forest, mandarin orange, Barbara, a barber?, brown colored desserts, Claire/Clarisse/Clara, Tchsikovsky, berries, Alina, Shadow and Bone(the whole of Grishaverse but specifically the S&B part of it). Nakshatras of Shatabhisha, Ardra, Ashlesha, Dhanishta, Vishakha.

"Oh Irina..."

Hello Irina.

If you're not named Irina or something similar, it might be the name of a person relevant to you or this reading. Or maybe you just like the name/it means something to you.

I'm seeing darker colors of Winter. I got a distinct Slavic vibe for this group, but might be somewhere else.

Now I'm getting the word "malina", which means raspberry, and the name Alina.

I think I'm seeing Alina and being reminded of "Shadow and Bone" so that I can channel the message...

It does not have to be relevant to you.

Anyways, Alina is the protagonist of "Shadow and Bone"(book trilogy and a show), for those who don't know, and she's the Sun summoner(only one of her kind), representing light that is eventually going to fight the darkness. That theme of light and dark and their interplay is the perhaps the most obvious theme of that work.

Spoiler alert😭 sorry.

Alina repressed her powers in the beginning, while being tested, so that she would not be discovered, fearing that if she did in fact have powers, she would be taken away from her best friend from the orphanage, not wanting to be apart from him. They were children then.

For context, she could have had any power but the power of the Sun Summoner had been prophesized and highly desired, not only by grishas(basically, people with powers in that universe) but for also saving the kingdom of Ravka(Slavic coded) from the fold(it's a wall/passage of void and darkness). So, she gave up a life in the palace, that grishas get, to stay in the orphanage with her best friend, unknowingly depriving the nation of the Sun Summoner for years as a result😭.

There might be a theme of willing or concious concealment, most likely of yourself.

There are many variations of this: some of you are doing it for noble reasons, some of you do it for survival, some of you do it just... because, reasons.

A version of this is that you have hidden your views, opinions, preferences, thoughts, feelings and/or small actions, because you think people around you will harm you? This sounds intense, I'm sorry if this is true. Maybe not physically harm you, but you guys just have a concious need or desire for extreme privacy and secrecy. It looks to me like you're doing this to reach a specific goal.

For some of you, most likely a minority, I'm getting that this is a pregnancy, and that it's not from a committed relationship or a marriage.

For others, it's a course you decided to take in life, maybe about choosing a degree or wanting to learn something(literally taking a course for a skill) on your own.

For the rest, this might be just passivity and silence around others when there might be a tense situation. This is probably the only instance in this group where I'm guided to say that that is not the best choice at all, in fact, it might be setting you back.

"Don't assume when you don't see"

"Don't express what you don't know"

Interesting... I think you guys are not only concealing your truths, but also sharing things that mean little to you. You might be speaking a lot about politics, for example, when it's of little interest to you, and your opinions might be strong too. Or you might partake in gossip about people you don't care about at all. You might be wasting your energy on outside things that keep the life around you going in some way, but deep down you feel ignored and jaded, keeping your world a secret. A feeling I'm getting while writing this is exhaustion, and a string of hope, fleeting, barely there. It's like you have a little eagerness and enthusiasm for sharing your opinions/choices/reality(whatever you're hiding) all the while it's getting trampled on over and over and over...

This is torturous. You should be able to feel included in the life around you. Your values are imperative and they should reflect on your outward reality. I know that you are concealing them in hopes of working on making them manifest in reality, but no. Your struggle is not worth whatever can be achieved by this. It might make things way worse...

Trust yourself and don't listen to me if you think I'm wrong, especially if your situation does concern pregnancy or a huge life choice, but please, hear me out too if you can.

"There is a sign" is what I've got. You might be given a sign about where you will be heard, valued and supported. Something about the letter U and nuts is what I'm getting already😭. These, and the sign you might get can be signs of a place or a person, of where or to whom you should go to if you're tired of pretending and in need of a relief.

"Your mother loves you". This is definitely for someone. Most likely a feminine. Maybe for Irina.

I'm hearing "you have everything". There is so much that is a treasure around you, even if it seems like everything surrounding you only restricts you. You have that passion inside, and other people have not managed to erase your dreams completely, have they?

You might be close to reaching the finish line of whatever you're trying to achieve. This is an encouraging and proud sign that you are on the destined path, driving on the destined road. Keep going, it's right there...

Picture 2:

Signs: Shakespeare, drama, existentialism, period movies/tv, longing for love and passion, medieval fantasy/history/films/cosplay/comedy/anything, Aidan, Gwen/Gwyn, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, USA, The Witcher, Ciri from The Witcher, daydreamer, Phantom Of The Opera, past life regression attempts(successful or not), 124, Jack, Jackson, "liar liar", emotional/intense music, poems, boarding school?, "Jack and the beanstalk", rainy weather, Monty Python, quiet kid, bug/bugs. Nakshatras: Pushya, Bharani, Mula, Krittika.

Jack, this is the pile of Jack.

I don't know who this is. Jack might even be a character. It might be something different for everyone.

Ohhhh I got "Jack and the beanstalk", okayyy...

Someone here is non-binary, I'm also getting gay men in their younger years.

Middle child or youngest child?

Some of you love theater, but that's an obvious explanation of the images I'm getting. There's a flavor of dramaticism and theatrical behavior.

But the soul of Jack or whoever is reading this is that of a dreamer. And the dreamer that they are, dreams big. You have a wonderful, rich, spectacular mix of stories, feelings, aspirations inside of you, and that world is the highest, most precious thing for you.

Jack climbed the beanstalk, went higher and higher than his mundane world. And I think that's what the theme of the message is, in a way.

There's something fiery with the way you guys present yourselves, something filled with passion and real, intense but self-aware care. You seem aware of your nature and delight in it. There's something airy and "larger than life" about you, but at the same time_ aware and grounded. I don't think I'm describing it properly but that energy feels very beautiful to me.

Might be off topic but the images I'm getting here are: a redhead young woman with blue eyes(or is she blonde?) with her hair flying and she has a very present/aware but dreamy expression, red and black plaid, Scottish highlands, rainy/gloomy/misty weather in mountains, fire, colors red and green in general. Someone here might be from Scotland, have Scottish ancestry or maybe they just love the country to the point where it means a lot to them. For the rest, you might have been getting signs about it, or seeing Scotland as a sign? Anyway, it's a sign you're being given now.

"Jack and the beanstalk" is a fascinating story because it's describing an ambitious but mostly go-with-the-flow, relaxed boy, and him climbing the beanstalk and believing the person who gave him the beans can make people describe him as having his "head in the clouds", and also having the fiery drive to just climb it😭. Aries energy is just like that, so maybe you have Aries(sidereal, but ig can be tropical too) as an important placement. But I'm also getting air signs, and earth signs, and Pisces.

So when Jack came back from the land of the giants, he brought gifts. Gifts that he had stolen btw but let's not dwell on that😭

Weirdly I don't think this is a message about "be true to your dreams, believe in them and share their results with your loved ones" as sweet as that is, because you're way past that like that is not your focus at all. It's also not the message of "you have to ground your dreams somehow in the practical reality". I don't think that's an issue for you. Even if it is, I think there's a different message here and I'm not sure what it is yet...

Someone realized something that made them have clarity. It's you. You have seen/heard/realized something. I'm getting you laughing about it, maybe from relief, happiness and/or irony.

I'm getting a situation that concerns a person you know. They either helped you or you want to help them/have helped them. I don't think you're super close with them. They don't seem like a family member. But the situation is close to your heart, spirit and soul... You might think this is karmic, something you have to do. Like, if you help them you'll be rewarded and free of a burden.

"Jack is in their head"

That was said to me from my intuition. Why are you in your head? (All of you are Jack now for a second ok?😭 all of you are named Jack, for all intents and purposes)

"Jack is a good kid"

I know. You are. Maybe you needed to hear this.

Why is this connected to your "head in the clouds" or your character though? Maybe I needed to get into your energy.

I'm getting names Mabel, Mary, Harley and Holly now. Ok. Got them quickly. Might be you or someone else, maybe that person. Isla? Something about a cage, a secret understanding between you and that someone?

Are you worried? You are trapped somehow, feeling sad about it? But you were not harmed, at least that's not how you see it. You might feel guilty or sad for someone, and a lot. Oh I so did not expect this to go here. It's like a very engaging story.... which I got in the beginning. The drama, the story, the realization. What is happenning?

Did that happen already? And then you realized something and were done with it?

(Note: so I got up and walked around, hoping to get more info. This is what came to me, some of these details nay resonate with you but the message stays:)

"Jack is a kid(you might be in your early 20s at most). He lives in Scotland, has an older brother and a younger sister. Jack has great leadership potential and a character that suits it inside him, but he's too "over it" and has a grounded but high perspective that prevents him from engaging or caring too much, and makes him more deatched, kind if like you(so Jack is like me huh). Jack saw something he shouldn't have seen, realized something he shouldn't have known. He went and apologized to whomever it concerned and then left that situation. Now Jack feels even worse, worn out and guilty. In his mind, that situation is over, he does not want to go back to it, and he does not have to, but he must have peace of mind. Jack is a good kid. That girl(maybe that other person is a female. I'm getting Isla or and S name that has I in it?) will talk to you and give you relief. Don't worry Jack."

Wow. So that already happened. You might have any of the pronouns btw, I just wrote "he". So you know what happened and most don't. Maybe, in that situation, someone from your family has wronged that person or you indirectly/unknowingly harmed them, or thought you did. You went to explain yourself and be rid of it. I think it has really worn you out, made you think too much. And that situation is also a secret that you were not supposed to know.

If you have not resonated to a single thing in this reading yet, idk what to tell you. But here's the theme: you have a high perspective and understanding, against your will, but you also like it most times. You will reach success?? I'm getting success for you, congrats, mainly in self-development/dreams/career for some. Some of you might be on your way to fame actually, minor or major, but only take this if it makes sense for you. It might be unexpected though. You have to stop thinking too much about whatever that situation is that dragged you down energetically. If that part of getting invloved in a secret mess resonates, then that other person is going to, most likely, say thanks/apologize/acknowledge your actions.

You can take that experience as a lesson and a turning point. You might remember it with a lot of feeling in the future, reminiscing on it with quiet comtemplation or vivid memory.

I still don't know the whole story of this. Is there a secret child involved? Let me know maybe...

Either way, I hope you have a good day, Jack😉🤍

Picture 3:

Signs: clean white sheets, linen, horses, color white, green meadows, wired earphones, clear blue skies, cloudy evenings in summer, youth/childhood, 33, rivers, washing clothes in a river, nymphs, lambs, calf, distrust of older males, visible joy, hidden suspicions/fears, Annie/Annika/Anne/Anya..., golden brown/ light blonde or long and dark brown/black hair, white tea, Bern(Switzerland)(big sign), Geneva(Switzerland), Lorraine(Germany), white flowers, Jasmine(name or flower), Elizabeth/Liz, initial T(might be of anything). Nakshatras of Punarvasu, Jyeshta, Uttara Bhadrapada.

I'm getting something about a rural environment, maybe about a family home there. It's in the mountains and there is a lot of green there in the summer.

This is most likely a memory or a previous wish/dream. I'm hearing now it was something that has happened and something you have a clear/vivid memory of, still.

I'm getting a sense of a (extended)family gathered together somewhere. I'm seeing it's in Summer months but it could've been anytime. It seems like a happy and carefree occassion. There might have been a man/male, someone older who raised hair or set off a silent alarm within you. You, the person reading this, might have noticed something or just gotten a gut feeling about him that gave you an ick, a huge ick actually. What's interesting is that I think only you noticed it, there certaiy was not much validation from others when it came to that.

"You were not imagining it"

"Someone was wrong"

"Children notice a lot"

I am so sorry but I am getting creepy and disgusting energy from that person. An older female(maybe a male for some of you) in your family/in that group might have defended him or told you you were being silly, imagining it, making things up from little evidence. But you were not. I am getting, strongly, that you were right. I have no idea why this is coming up though. For most of you, I'm getting this is not something traumatic to you, at least not really, but if it is, I hope you get your justice, however much you need. You should not doubt your childhood self is the message for you.

Validation from wherever I'm hearing this messages(😭my intuition?) is here. I think you're revisiting that time in your life or just remembering how you felt then and realizing you're not so different from that version of you. This is going to give you a lot of validation and true confidence. When others ignored or doubted you, you held on to yourself. Good for you. But I have to say that you were most likely around 12-13 at most, for most of you, which makes your self-respect even more impressive. There were so many attempts, councious or not, at killing the trust you had for yourself. Maybe the years after tried to do it again but wow, even though you almost slipped, everything arrayed against you just fell away, on its own. And now you have come back to that place of an untainted perspective.

This message was for you if you had longer, brown hair then, or very light blonde, and/or if your or some other person's name there was Anne, Annie, Annika, Anya, or any variation of it. Even if not, that still might've been for you, but that was just confirmation for a collective.

(Added note: when I wrote "might've been" just now, I wrote "might've bern" at first. Bern, Switzerland might be of relevance to this, or the whole country of Switzerland, actually. Adding that to signs😄)

"Annika, you are spot on"

I'm going to feel embarrassed if none of you are named Annika or a similar name but that's what I got😶 maybe that name means something to you, even if you do not have a real-life person in your life who is called that.

Another name I'm getting is Liz, or Lizzie, Eliza... you get it, any variation of it. If someone here is named Elizabeth, then they most likely get addressed by a shortened version of the name, or were then.

I'm getting Annika and Anne names much more strongly though.

So going back to the message, anyone who invalidated you, made you feel like you were insane, they do not know what they are talking about, and never did. At least regarding your perspectives and your inner world in general. It is hard when family makes you feel unseen, alone and abandoned, but give yourself a break for a moment and realize, that you have been the one with the clear vision all this time, you are the one who has the best awareness.

I feel something like irony and calm reminiscing. You have grown so much, only to become the same person you were that time. And I still call that growth.

(Another note: when I wrote "same" I wrote "sane" at first. You ARE sane, have always been.)

I am truly sorry for those people who made you feel insane because they are going to be really put through an experience. Not that you care for it much. I think you guys are good at having a "birds eye view", a high perspective that allows you to see the whole picture clearly. You are not petty at all, and prefer peace and calm as your vengeance against those who wronged you. Those people are about to have the rug pulled from under their feet. They are going to feel like the earth has bern opened beneath them. A blessing that they have never gotten_ the truth revealed. You have known it all along.

I think you guys forgot about that situation, and now, going back to it emotionally or mentally, or even psychologically, might feel like you're yourself again, whole.

If you guys have not hit a milestone yet, then I'm seeing success for you. At the very least, I'm seeing mental assuredness and spritual security in you, calm(on the outside) passion and contentment in general, a lot of independence too. True freedom from unecccesary imposter syndrome is also there. A momentum is going to be picking up in your life, like a ball rolling and getting bigger, picking up more as it goes. Independence, validation, balance, peace💕 and you're looking good I see, you're feeling fresh, healthy and true, natural.

Do not go back to anyone who has wronged you, even if they want to apologize and want your forgiveness. It's rude not to do so for some people, but your momentum cannot bear to be affected by that familiar, harmful energy. Try to be as distant with them as possible, and try to spend as little energy on them as possible, preferrably, none at all.

I'm seeing travel for you guys and I want to congratulate you. Do not know why, but maybe the fact that you have arrived in this flow is enough.

👑 here, for you.

Please comment or reblog to let me know if and how this resonated. I'd love to know more.

[secretlysamcro]

Female Reader x Jax Teller DV!, Violence, Explicit language, Smut & Possible Spoilers If you're under the age of 18, easily offended, haven't finished the show or dislike any of said topics, please read no further.

Request: “Hello, I have an idea. I was thinking that the reader at first is in an abusive relationship and her boyfriend makes a mistake of trying to hit her public. Jax who was parked nearby, comes to the aid of reader. Jax offers reader to live with him as a roommate till she can get on her feet and she agrees. During that time reader gets a new job and Jax develops feelings for her. One day she tells Jax that she made enough money to move out. This makes Jax heart break little and He tell her to staying with him along with his feelings”

Backstory: For two long years, you found yourself trapped in this relationship with your boyfriend. Displaying the perfect relationship, yet behind closed doors your boyfriend’s actions revealed a violent side. Leaving your body marked with cuts and bruises that you desperately concealed from the world. However, unbeknownst to the both of you, today was the last day he’d ever lay hands on you again.

Jax listens closely to the escalating exchange between yourself and your boyfriend, his senses on high alert. His Harley is parked just a few spaces away. Close enough for him to catch the heated conversation between you both. Every word, every tone and every subtle change in your voice and demeanour is observed by Jax as he keeps a watchful eye on the unfolding scene.

You find yourself trapped in the passenger seat beside your boyfriend, a barrage of accusations being thrown and shouted at you as he falsely accuses you of looking at other men.

“He let me pass, I just said thank you” You respond, your voice very monotone.

The windows are down, the volume of his voice not being controlled in the slightest. No doubt in your mind that anyone in close proximity can hear this turbulent exchange.

As your boyfriend’s words fade into a background noise, you feel the boiling anger within you reaching its breaking point. The constant accusations, the verbal assaults, the physical assaults, every little thing within your relationship has pushed you to the edge and you can feel yourself about to erupt.

His voice thunders through your mental fog, snapping you back to reality. “Are you fucking listening to me?” he says, his tone harsh and demanding attention. You find yourself reconnecting to the present moment.

“If you weren’t so fucking insecure, maybe you-“ your seethed words were immediately cut off. The sudden shock of the impact sets your head spinning, the ringing in your ears growing louder as you register the pain that your boyfriend had conflicted, once again.

In that exact moment, Jax had witnessed it all. He saw how hard your boyfriend’s hand connected with your face. It caused him to feel an intense boiling anger, surging through each and every vein in his body. Without any hesitation, he jumps off his bike with a fierce determination to defend you.

Before you’re able to react, the drivers side door is swung open and your boyfriend is pulled out onto the sidewalk by a blur of movement. Loud thuds and punches fill the air as the unknown man strikes him from various angles. The sounds of your boyfriends pained grunts and cries for help filling your ears, a dark sense of satisfaction begins to creep over you.

Jax stops immediately as he becomes aware of your presence, hovering just above him. He lifts his free hand to sweep back the unruly strands of hair that have fallen across his face, as he maintains a firm hold on your boyfriend with the other hand. “You okay?” Is all he can manage to say right now, the concern for your well being hanging in the air.

You move your head side to side, in a slow defeated way as you silently confirm to Jax that you’re far from okay. Your boyfriend, who is still under Jax’s weight witnesses this. “Stupid bitch” he says, spitting out flecks of blood that stain his mouth.

He glances down and notices the patches on Jax’s vest, realising the unpredictable situation that he’s in. He then manages to break free, in a desperate bid to escape he suddenly frees himself from Jax’s grasp, pushing him away, only to make a frantic escape to the car. He swiftly reverses, narrowly avoiding hitting you and Jax in the process before he accelerates away. Jax with his quick reflexes, quickly pulls you out of harms way causing you to both end up sprawled on the floor together.

As Jax rises to his feet, he offers a helping hand to ensure you find your balance as well. “What’s your name darlin’?” He questions, his voice carries a hint of concern and also warmth as he attempts to soothe your unsettled nerves.

"Y/N" you respond. He smiles warmly as he leads you to a nearby bench, moving with calm and purpose. He tells you that his name is Jackson, but everyone calls him Jax. "Does he always treat you that way?" Jax questions as he attempts to untangle the history of your relationship. You nod slowly, feeling the gravity of your situation resting heavy between you as you sit down next to each other. He shakes his head in disbelief at your answer and you can almost see the anger physically building on his face. It makes you wonder why he is so concerned about you, someone he doesn't even know.

The tears you were managing to hold back, creep out silently as you see the reaction Jax had. You do your best to hide the tears that are betraying your usual strong facade.

"He does this a lot?" Jax says, looking at you intently, waiting for your answer. You nod again, a wave of embarrassment washing over you. He shakes his head harder this time, the anger flickering across his face as he mutters cursed about your boyfriend under his breath, his frustration evident. Jax glances down at his bloody and bruised hands, twisting his 'SO' ring nervously. You cant help but feel a twinge of guilt for the injuries he has sustained because of yourself and your boyfriend.

"Thanks for that..." you manage to mutter, paired with a small smile despite the pain. He smirks back, a slight glint of mischief in his eyes. "Don't thank me... I should have done a lot more than throw a few punches" he replies, wiping his hands on his jeans as he slowly rises to his feet. It feels a bit strange of him to ask, but with your jerk of a boyfriend having abandoned you, he decided to extend an offer. "I can give you a ride home... you know, if you need one?” he suggests, hoping you'll accept.

"I, um... no, I cant... I don't want to go home yet. I don't want to see him... ever" you reply, your voice confident that this will be the last time. "You can drop me to a nearby motel though... if you don't mind?" you add, not wanting to turn down Jax's offer of help.

Immediately, Jax's expression shifts to one of concern. "A motel? are you sure..." he asks, clearly uneasy with the thought of you being alone in a rundown motel, especially in the shaken state that you're currently in.

"Look, I err... I have a spare room at my clubhouse, you're more than welcome to stay there for a few nights, you know to get yourself back on your feet, figure out your next move, or whatever" he offers, aware that it might come off as a bit forward since you've just met.

He catches the small flicker of wariness in your eyes and laughs softly, the sound easing the tension that currently hangs in the air. "Don't worry," he says, as a reassuring grin spreads across his face. He begins to tell you about the motorcycle club that he leads. You can tell how passionate he is about it with the way he speaks. "You'll be safe there, no matter what" he assures you.

"Okay" You agree, a flutter of nervousness settles in yours stomach, but the thought of returning to your abusive (now ex) boyfriend sends a cold shiver down your spine. The promise of safety sounding too tempting to turn down.

The moment you agree to stay at the clubhouse, you can see a tiny spark of excitement light up Jax's eyes. Jax feels a sense of relief as he knows you wont be heading back into harms way. "Alright, just give me a second" he says, pulling out his phone. "Just need to make a quick call, then we'll head out" The confidence in his voice, reassures you, making this small leap into the unknown feel a little less daunting.

The line picks up, and Jax starts talking straight away. "Yeah, Mom, i need you to tidy up the dorm a little, okay?" He rolls his eyes like a teenager being scorned. "Jesus christ Mom... can you just do it... please?" His voice carries an assertive edge, clearly used to navigating these sorts of conversations. "Im just helping out someon-... a friend.... Alright, ok, thanks mom" He hangs up.

[5 months later]

"Jax!" you shout, racing down the stairs from Jax's spare room, which you now call your room. "I got the job!" you shout again, even louder.

In the kitchen, Jax freezes, the carton of orange juice halfway to his lips. His eyes widen in surprise, and then a grin stretches across his face as he hears your good news. "Ahh, Darlin', I knew you would!" he calls out to you, rising to meet you as you rush into the kitchen. Before you even make it fully into the kitchen, Jax wraps you in a comforting embrace, a wave of pride within him. His heart flutters slightly as you squeeze him tighter, unaware that the same butterflies are dancing in your stomach too.

You settle into your chair at the kitchen table, with Jax taking a seat across from you. You chat about your upcoming job, discussing the role, the hours you'll be doing and more. "...and once I save up, I’m gonna start looking for my own place" You laugh slightly as you look up at Jax "finally get out of your way..." Your words land on him like a ton of bricks. "you're not in the way" Jax reassures you, his usually steady voice carrying a trace of worry.

Your stay in the clubhouse dorm was short lived - just under two weeks. Jax had introduced you to most of the guys and some of his family, and you fit right in, getting along with everyone, especially Jax's mom, Gemma, which was a rare occurrence.

In fact, it was actually Gemma who suggested you move in with Jax. She had caught the whispers among some other club members, who were frustrated that they could no longer use the dorm to hide the nights they shared with the crow eaters from their wives.

Gemma also noticed how much calmer Jax seemed with you around. Though she didn't know you well, he had shared some details of the circumstances in which you both met, and Gemma, having walked many paths in her own life, understood your situation and therefor felt a connection to you.

Once you agreed, you provided Jax with the address of the house you used to share with your ex. He took Happy along, and together they gathered your things. Happy, living up to his name, helped Jax to give your ex more than just a mild goodbye...let’s just say he wont ever be able to put his hands on another woman again and Happy has gained a new smiley face tattoo.

The first few days living with Jax were a bit awkward as you both navigated each other’s routines but by the end of the first week, everything fell into place. From the outside, it would be hard to believe you were just two strangers, it was as if you had known each other for a very long time.

Jax furrows his brows, wanting to make sure you understand exactly what he is saying. "Seriously y/n, You kind of ground me…I’m a better person with you around" he admits, aware of how vulnerable he sounds in this moment. You tilt your head slightly, drawn in by the sincerity in his voice. A small smile tugs at your lips, mirroring the familiar smirk that Jax also has.

"You know I could never thank you enough for everything you've done for me... but I've got to get back on my own two feet..." Jax sits up straighter in his chair, a look of discomfort crossing his face at the thought of you moving out.

Though the smirk lingers on your lips, your voice takes on a more serious tone. “You can’t expect me to stay here forever.” Without missing a beat, Jax replies, his stance unmoved. “But what if that’s what I want?”

“What do you mean?” You murmur, wondering if this conversation is steering in the direction of which you desire. His words echo again, “what if I don’t want you to leave?” This time, he sounds more confident. His tone assertive as if he knows exactly what he wants.

“Well… then I’d ask you why” you respond, maintaining your composure but sounding curious at the same time, as you stand up from your chair and lean against the kitchen counter, now closer to Jax.

As he turns to face you, a coy smile plays on his lips. “Then I’d have to confess a few things” The air thickening with anticipation.

You can feel your eagerness growing as you chew on the inside of your cheek, anxiously waiting to hear these unspoken confessions. “Oh really?” You tease, “Things like?” The words leaving your lips, a slight touch of neediness.

Jax rises from his seat, his towering frame overshadowing you. He takes a step closer, the heat between you growing more intense as the seconds pass. “Like this” he says, his voice deep and low as he leans in closer, leaving a kiss on your exposed neck.

He pulls away slowly, your gaze following his every move, your body craving more - so much more. “Wanna hear the rest?” He whispers, seeking your confirmation before carrying on. You nod desperately giving Jax the green light. With your agreement, he moves closer to you once more. His body now pressing against yours.

His movements are slow and deliberate as he lifts his hands to your face, gently cupping you in his palms. The cold touch of his rings against your skin is a huge contrast to the heat he’s causing you to feel inside. The kiss starts off slow and gentle. His hands moving to grasp the back of your neck, pulling you closer to him. You smile into the kiss, feeling that one wayward strand of hair that Jax always has out of place brushing against your forehead.

“What took you so long?” You say playfully, knowing this moment was bound to happen sooner or later. “Fuck knows” he laughs, as the kiss becomes more intense.

His hands travel down to your shorts, his fingers slipping under the waist band. He keeps his gaze locked on yours, constantly seeking permission and reassurance with each touch, making sure that you’re completely comfortable with his actions.

The sensation of his touch against your body causes your breath to catch in your throat. “Fuck, y/n you’re so fucking wet” he mumbles into your neck, his words making your clit throb as you coat his fingers with your desire. He groans deeply as he begins to explore further, feeling you react to his every touch.

Your eyes shift down to his lower half, where you notice his reaction taking place. His hard, growing cock is clearly visible, straining against the fabric of his loose grey sweatpants. You can’t help but let out a little whimper as you instinctively grind your body against him. The need and desire is driving you wild. You can feel every inch of him, pressed against you, as you can’t help but imagine how it would feel having him inside you right now.

He continues kissing and sucking at your neck as he teases you with the light, sensual circles of his thumb against your clit. Giving you that warm pool in the pit of your stomach.

You softly pull at the back of his head, encouraging him to stop the kisses for a moment. When he does, you look deeply into his eyes and utter the 3 words he’s been dying to hear. “I need you”.

His eyes widen at the words as he removes his hand from your soaked pussy. He grins as he sees the sight of your desire left on his fingers. He brings them to his lips, tasting them as he imagines all the things to come. “Mhmm” his voice raspy, “You taste so fucking good” his eyes beaming at the sight of the wetness you've left on his fingers. You take his hand and use your tongue to clean off the remaining moisture, making a show of tasting yourself on his skin. His eyes darken and a low growl rolls from his chest. He swallows hard, his breath catching in his throat at the sight of you taking pleasure in this act, he can’t help but to act on his desperation.

With a swift and powerful movement, Jax bends you over the table, sending the open carton of orange juice spilling on the ground. He pulls your shorts and panties down with a rough tug exposing you to the cool air. He quickly kicks off his sweatpants and boxers. Your face is forced down into the cold, hard surface of the table as you feel your wrist locked in his firm grip and he pins them behind your back with one hand. You’re finally experiencing the raw power that Jackson Nathaniel Teller possesses.

He lets a bit of saliva fall free from his mouth and onto his other hand, rubbing his thick cock back and forth, getting ready to push it into you. He taps it gently on the mound of your ass, before you feel his weight lay into you, your arms still pinned beneath him. “Ready for me? y/n” his lips brush against your ear, he already knows the answer, but you still let out a little “hmm hmm” anyway. You feel his weight shift off you slightly, anticipating his next move. He begins teasing you with his cock, gliding it between your dampened lips as you silently beg him to enter. Just when you think can’t take it anymore, he finally pushes himself inside of you with a single, strong movement, filling and stretching you to a point where you can’t hold in your moans, even if you tried.

“Fuck, Jax” you moan out, your cheek grazing at the table as your body adjusts to his girth and length. Your hands clench into fists as he pushes you to the edge of insanity, your desperate to cling onto the sides of the table for support, instead you find yourself at the mercy of Jax’s firm grip, holding you into place with a level of control that both excites and thrills you.

His voice is strained and breathless. “Mhm, f-fuck y/n” he manages to let out between gasps. “Tell me…” he tries to say, struggling to form a coherent sentence as he keeps up his relentless rhythm. “Ughhh fuck…” he swiftly pushes his hair out of his face, his locks sticking to his sweaty forehead as he continues to pound into you. “Tell me you’re gonna stay”. He manages to let out, over the sounds of flesh meeting flesh echoing through the kitchen. There’s a hint of pleading in his voice, alongside the obvious pleasure he’s feeling. He wants, no, needs reassurance from you, needs to hear that you plan on staying with him.

You fully surrender to him, sinking deeper into the pleasure and give in to his dominance. Your moans are muffled by the table as you understand what he truly wants - you to be his. As the pleasure becomes more intense, you utter the words “I’m gonna sta…” But before you can finish, jax loosens his grip on your wrist, finally allowing you to be free, but instead pulls tightly onto your hair, lifting your face slightly off the table, wanting to hear every sound that escapes your lips with out any obstacles in the way. “Tell me darlin’… say it!” his voice takes on a deeper, possessive tone as he demands to hear your reassurance.

“…I’m gonna…c-c” you become completely undone beneath him. Your body jerks and wriggles as your bruised, wet walls massage him in response to your pleasure. Jax can feel himself wanting to let go too, but he prolongs it just a little longer. He wants you to experience your own release first, before he allows himself the same pleasure. He continues to move against you, his movements becoming more unsteady and erratic as his own need to release builds up.

His hands, now moved from your hair, form a steady but careful grip around the front of your neck, holding you in place as he digs deeper into you, the sensations overwhelming you both. “That’s it baby girl, come for me” are the last words he manages to say, through short, rugged breaths.

With a quick, but reluctant motion, he pulls his engorged length out from inside you. He hovers over you as he begins stroking himself. You and your pussy already missing how full he makes you feel.

He aims with precision as you feel the warmth and stickiness of his cum land all over your back, Jax grunting as he speaks “yeah… yeah…y/n…fuuuck”.

You look over your shoulder to see his face twisting in undeniable pleasure, a sight you could get used to.

The room falls silent, as jax crashes down on your back. Both of you taking a moment to catch your breaths as you regain your composure after that heated, intense moment. Jax finally lifts himself off of you, his body now sweaty and glistening alongside yours.

He picks his sweatpants off the floor and uses them to clean up all traces of him that linger on your body, taking his time to ensure it’s all gone, before wiping the cum off his own stomach and chest.

You finally peel yourself away from the table, turning round to face Jax as he pulls you closer by your hips. His voice is a bit shaky, a hint of nervousness despite the intensity of the previous moment. “So…” he begins, uncertainty and vulnerability still in his tone. “So… I guess I’m staying” you say, your quiet laugh filling the air, signalling your agreement to what you’ve just committed to.

The familiar, sly smirk appears back on Jax’s face as he playfully suggests “I mean, I can always convince you again” he teases, cocking his head slightly clearly enjoying the effect he has on you. “I don’t doubt that, Teller” you respond teasingly.

He reaches for his boxers, slipping them back on and handing your shorts to you as you do the same. He then takes a seat at the table, grabbing his pack of cigarettes and lighting one up.

You move around and stand next to him, asking, "So what? Am I like your old lady now?" with a mocking tone, poking fun at the term "old lady" that Jax had introduced you to before. He chuckles slightly at your question, knowing the underlying meaning behind it.

Jax knows that you need clear confirmation before making this step to a significant change in your life. He inhales deeply before responding.

“Yeah, you are” he finally answers back fast and with confidence.

The smoke swirling around him as his eyes meet yours. He gives a little nod, confirming your status as Jax Tellers old lady.

[one year later]

“You ready sweetheart?” Gemma’s voice breaks the silence in the room as she carefully adjusts the veil on your head. You turn to face the mirror, taking a moment to admire yourself in your wedding dress - a day you never thought would happen. You take a deep breath and look at yourself one final time, feeling a mixture of excitement and nervousness. “I’m ready” you let out in a confident, soft whisper.

Jax stands at the altar, alongside his best friend Opie. He notices Jax’s nervous behaviour and asks “You nervous?” Jax can’t help but fidget in place, scanning the surroundings ahead of him, anxiety and excitement written all over his face. Opie reassures him with a firm pat on the shoulder, trying to calm his nerves.

“You know it’s gonna be okay brother” he says “she’s the one for you man, we all know it… so do you”. The confidence and trust in Opies words is present, and Jax is able to draw strength from them.

The ceremony as a whole was truly beautiful, filled with little details that represented you both as a couple. Emotions ran high especially when you both said you “I do’s” with a few tears shed and a room full of love and complete support.

You and Jax manage to steal a quiet moment together, tucked away in the corner of the after party. After a day of being the centre of attention, it’s a relief to have a moment in peace, just the two of you, the newlyweds.

“What was that little thing you and Ope did there?” You smile, ear to ear. “I promise to treat you as good as my leather, and ride you as much as my Harley” Jax laughs as he repeats the phrase, the creases around his eyes deepen as he smiles at you, the love in his look is undeniable. “Another one of our traditions” he says, as he traces small patterns against your bare arm with his thumb.

“I love you so fucking much y/n” he confesses, his voice filled with emotion and his eyes welling up slightly. “The both of you” his hand instinctively moving to caress your stomach, the secret you both share adding an extra layer of special to the moment.

“Jackie boy!” Chibb’s voice calls out. Jax moves his hand discreetly from your stomach. But the sharp eyed scotsman catches the subtle movement. He walks towards you both slowly. “Your Mothers needing you in the photo booth” he lets Jax know whilst giving you a knowing wink, a silent acknowledgment of what he’s just observed.

[four and a half years later]

You sit on the floor, drawing pictures with your eldest son Abel. Baby Harley is sat in her bouncer quietly observing. You glance over at Abel’s drawing.

“What are you drawing baby?” You ask, a small smile on your lips. “I’m drawing our family mommy… there’s you, see, and then me and daddy and that one is Harley” the sweet innocence in his voice tugs at your heartstrings, a beautiful representation of the family that you and Jax have created together.

Abel glances up at you, a curious expression on his face. “Mommy… where did you and Daddy find eachother?” He asks, as he continues moving the crayon across the page waiting for your response.

You take in a deep breath as your thoughts drift back to that very morning, the day that you and Jax had unexpectedly crossed paths, his presence changing your life in ways you never could have imagined.

You smile, looking over at Abel as you explain. “Mommy needed a place to stay for a while, so Daddy let me stay here” you explain, keeping the situation simplified, but still letting your son know how kind his Daddy was - and still is, opening his home to you, even though at the time you were still a stranger.

Jax chimes in from the kitchen, with a hint of humour, “yeah! and it was only meant to be for a few days!” He laughs to himself, as he’s sat at the very same kitchen table (still going strong by the way) that was involved in the moment that changed the course of your lives forever.

He bites his lip gently whilst smiling as the memory of that day, so many years ago now, lingers in his mind. He takes a deep breath, almost as if he’s trying to capture the moment in time again. The smells, the sounds, the raw emotions all flooding his senses.

You laugh, shaking your head at Jax’s comment. You turn your attention back to Abel who is patiently waiting for more details. “Daddy told me I could stay, until I sorted things out and got back on my own two feet…” you explain, looking over your shoulder to the kitchen door, seeing a slither of Jax’s figure sat at the very table. “…but I never did leave” you finish the sentence, twirling your ring on your wedding finger. Your words hang in the air.

Jax walks into the living room, slumping down on the black leather couch as he watches over his wife and two children. He can’t quite recall the specific reason as to why he was in that parking lot all those years ago. However, he knows he had to be there for a reason, and that reason, was you.

He catches the smile that you direct towards him a subtle cue that you’re expressing your love for him. This particular smile has become a silent language between the two of you, a way of saying “I love you” without making a sound. The corners of his mouth pull up in response, his own way of acknowledging your sentiment and returning the unspoken words of his love.

@ravennaortiz @theesirenteller | here you go my lovelies! I hope you both enjoy too! Photos, Gifs and music do not belong to me (apart from being edited and put together) Jax Teller Masterlist

xoxo secretly samcro

[ram-bles]

I absolutely adore how you write the whole gang 🥹 May I request more scenarios with them, please? I miss your angst. Would doomed love be alright? Thank you so much

Tulpar crew x reader || Ma Meilleure Ennemie

oh lord this took so long. these are so ooc I'm so sorry in advance. I'll just use Grant as Curly's first name for now.

#: gender neutral reader. angst. not proof-read.

⚠️ character deaths. gore. mouthwashing spoilers. yk, #justjimmythings 💖. toxic relationships.

[I was honestly worried I've written them too ooc 💧 thank you so much anon I'm glad you enjoy my ramblings!]

[ Anya ]

🟦 "I love you, I'm leaving you." ⬛

The night before, she'd confessed to you. You had a long heart to heart conversation with the nurse. Told you everything; Why her financial situation was in the gutter, academic issues, Pony express, Jimmy. After you'd attempted to comfort her, you told her yours once she insisted that she was fine hearing everything. Eventually, you both ended up with something more lighthearted. Hobbies, favorite music, hell, even favorite Pokemon/s. So, when Daisuke came rushing to both you and Jimmy the next day, cutting off the dry conversation, your heart sank. The two men tried to talk her out of the medical room, slamming and tugging on the door which made you flinch and your fingers felt numb. Did Anya feel the same? You had to bite your tongue at Jimmy's words, Anya told you to after all. It's best not to provoke him when we're trapped here. I can't keep watching you be treated like this, Anya. Especially not after knowing what he did to you. And I don't want him to hurt you either. Please. If not for me, for Daisuke and Swansea too. Quickly dismissing the 'Captain', Anya called your name. You loved it when she did. Your heart guiltily flutters and shatters at the same time. "Are you there?" "Y-Yeah." You stammered, the two looking back at you as you moved closer to the door. "Yes. I'm here, Anya. Please. Please, open the door." Anya smiles. He doesn't want Jimmy's voice to be the last she'll hear. "Open the damn door." "You were right." Her tone resigned. You can hear her take a deep breath. "You were right all along. I should have done this from the beginning. I always believed that our worst moments didn't define us. Didn't make us beyond repair." It was silent for a moment, her voice much softer. She probably moved away from the door. "You think I wanted this either? Make no mistake. This isn't my worst moment. Far from it." "It's the best decision I'll ever make." "Anya, please." "Open the door." "I'll take care of it." "Anya?!" Daisuke bangs on the door. "Please. Don't leave me, Anya." Your voice cracks as you call out for her in desperation, hand clutching onto Daisuke's shirt as an attempt to ground yourself. There were so many options in your head that you didn't know what to do. You were frozen. The panic worsens when Anya calls for your name again. "I'm sorry. I love you."

[ Curly ]

🎂 The best of all curses. 👁️

Your hands were shaky, clinging onto the bandaged man. It probably hurt him, but it kept you grounded. How selfish. Everyone else was dead, you knew you were next and so did he. And all he could do was make noises as if you could understand. It was supposed to be strings of I'm sorries but only vowels spilled along with tears. You fidget with the ring on your finger, a symbol of a promise never came true. You don't even know if his survived somewhere. Was it stuck in the foam along with his severed arm? Was it even still there. "We never decided whose last name to use, huh." You chuckle, hand still on his chest as you feel for his heartbeat. "Can this be our wedding instead?" Your veil being the hair that stuck to your face, clinging onto blood and sweat. He makes a noise, and you consider that as a yes. "Grant █████, I do. I still do." And you sob, carefully holding his chin and kissing the bandage just over his cheek. The ceremony cut to a halt when he starts writhing as he notices another presence. Jimmy had thought you were going to hurt him, too panicked to even think properly, the air being thin doesn't help either. The captain drags you off out of sight, the former unable to do anything.

[ Jimmy ]

♦️ The worst of all blessings. 🔪

The axe dragged on the floor, metal meeting metal as you shrugged off the grating noise. Take responsibility. While he was busy off with Swansea, you managed to grab the axe unnoticed. Until now at least. You found him, sitting along with everyone. You were late to the party it seems and you were the plus one. "Are you also trying to fucking kill me after I saved the last pod for you?" "How romantic." You knew he was lying. He prioritized Curly despite it all and out of all people, you would know that. Co-dependency's finest. You glance at Curly who could only stare back, too tired to writhe in pain. "Is this our anniversary dinner?" Jimmy visibly grips on his fork as his knuckles turn white. "This isn't even all my fault!" He's self-aware. "Curly didn't have to enter that fucking room. If Swansea didn't guard utility, Daisuke would still be here, and I was just defending myself from Swansea! Now you're taking his side?!" The past year had been like this with him. Somehow, it's never his fault. It's impressive, really, how he manages to divert everything away from him. "Anya?" "You weren't giving me enough attention." You give him a look after letting out a noise of disbelief and his knees almost buckle out of nervousness. He hates it. He hates how he could feel like this around you. Vulnerability was never his forte, but he somehow let someone love him. Loved him. Somehow, even after all this, you put some blame on yourself. You let go of the tool, dropping onto the floor with a loud clang as you stood at the other end of the table, across from him. Your palms rest on the surface, putting your weight on it as you grabbed the edges. "Is the pod really going to be for me?" "I-" he chokes on his own words, frustrated. Unconsciously, his gaze moves over to Curly. Was the guilt eating him up? Good. "How do we fix this, Jimmy?" "How are you going to fix this?" He stays silent. Before you could continue, he moved fast. Too fast. You hear a metal click and— BANG.

[ Daisuke ]

🌺 "I love you, I'm waiting for you." 🪓

Naive you both were. He knew how tug on both of your strings. Daisuke and his longing for approval, and you with your feelings for Daisuke. Somehow, he managed to separate you both, just enough time so he could convince the intern to enter the vents. When you'd return with the item Jimmy needed, you slammed it on the table and ran over to the bottom of the entrance. "Wait- wait! Does he really have to go?!" You didn't want to piss Jimmy off, but there was an unsettling feeling in your gut. "We can wait for Swansea to wake—" "There's no more fucking time. Curly and Anya needs us." "I'll be okay. I promise." He can't turn around now, there was barely any space for him so instead, he remains curled up there, not wanting to accidentally snag on the loose wires. You chewed on your lower lip to the point where you tasted metal. Daisuke calls for your attention. "You still there?" "Mhm." "I'll be back, okay? Meet me back at med?" He hates it there and you knew it. Even if his voice weren't as shaky as it is now, you'd still know it. So why was he trying to calm you down. "Be careful." You assumed that he nodded when he crawled off. This time, there was no one to hold your hand to stop yourself from digging your nails into your cuticles. There was shuffling and grunting when suddenly something crashes and he screams in pain and your body felt cold. "Daisuke!" "Shitshitshit- hang on, kid. Keep going." "He's fucking hurt!" "Get a grip. He can't turn around." Jimmy holds you by the shoulders as an attempt to ground you before tilting his head, gesturing to head back up already. There was... Blood everywhere. Lacerations and electrocution burns littered all around his. Swansea and Jimmy were arguing after 'sanitizing' the injuries and you were holding onto Daisuke's hand as he gripped it tight, the other pressing your torn jacket as an attempt to stop the bleeding. You push all your feelings aside, focused on keeping him alive but when he groans out apologies, you couldn't help but tear up, biting your lower lip hard to stop yourself from crying. Not now. "Hey! Stop, stop, stop! Don't move!" You feel a hand on your shoulder as Swansea kneels beside you, setting the axe on his lap as his calloused fingers pried yours away from Daisuke's chest and made you intertwine yours with Daisuke's. "Spill it, kid." As much as you didn't want this to happen, you understood the situation and you feel your cheek dampen. Your free hand holds Daisuke's cheek, swiping off the tears and some of the blood as you tried to hush his pain. It doesn't work, but you were there for him and that was enough. You were always enough for him. More than it. He coughs again in-between his sobs and you hold his hand tighter. Shh, I'm here. It'll be okay. "Mmrgh.... I love you." Brushing his hair away from his face and pressing your lips onto his forehead one final time. "I love you too, Daisuke. So much." You finally pry yourself off of him and Swansea speaks next. When he asks him to close his eyes, he glances at you first and you smile before he finally does.

[ Swansea ]

🪓 Better than alone, is to be in bad company. 🦢

Hugging your knees, you two sat in silence trying to process everything. Swansea was staring at a bottle of Dragonbreath X, red fingerprints contrasting the artificial blue. If anything, you expected him to chug it down after the events had unfolded. But he doesn't. You only flinch as he threw the bottle onto the wall, loose cap flying off somewhere as the contents spilled to the floor. "Listen to me." Your head perks up, tilting to face him but he wasn't looking at you. He was staring blankly at the barely empty bottle laying Infront of him. "Haven't experienced all, but I've experienced enough. I'm ready." "Swan—" "Can it and listen." You purse your lips, leaning onto your forearm as you hug your knees closer. "Remember the Cryopods?" You nod. "Was trying to fix two. For you and Daisuke." He chuckles dryly. "Could only get one up and workin'. It was hard you know. Figuring out which one'a ya should get it." "Who did you choose?" "Like asking for a favorite child? Hope you never get that choice." He looks down and continues, voice trailing off. "Couldn't decide. But since Daisuke's..." Your gaze moves to the same empty bottle. "What I'm saying is, I need you to get to it. Don't worry about ol' Swansea. I'll handle Jimmy." "Swansea?" He grunts in acknowledgement. "Can I hug you?" He hesitates for a moment before finally opening his arms and you crawl in-between them.

[A/N: I honestly wanted Swansea's line for Jimmy but I wanted Curly and Jimmy's to parallel. Same goes for Daisuke and Swansea, instead I paralleled dsk with Anya. I'd love to ramble on about why I chose the lines but let's keep this note short and sweet lol.]