#he did it all to spare me from the awful things in life that comes

[yanderenightmare]

Ryomen Sukuna

TW: captive reader, no-name character deaths, Sukuna in general

fem reader

Sukuna, in his true form some thousand years ago, carrying you on his arm so that your feet and dress don’t stain with the blood on the floor. A sea of carnage he’d laid to waste only a moment ago—soldiers sent to slaughter the monster’s concubine, a heathenness whore. They’d fallen no different from flowers trampled underfoot.

It's a tragedy. If anyone could free you from his prison, it would have been them.

A heavy finger catches the tear dribbling down your face before it can fall to join the red below. “Don’t water them with your tears,” he says, bringing the droplet to his lips. “Not even in death do they deserve it.”

You view his second face—the warped array of eyes upon an inhuman mask—as a punishment from the Gods for his vile ways. 

“Did you think I’d find it flattering?” you ask sharply through the sorrow. “Murder in my name?”

Nothing betrays the look in his garnet eyes, nor does the way he holds you. He simply lets you sit there, upon him like a thrown, admonishing him no less—as if he hadn’t just saved your life from a thousand swords.

“I don’t,” you bite out when he doesn’t answer. “It sickens me. I curse whichever part of me attracted such a monster.”

That makes him smile. “I’m afraid that’s all of you, turtledove.” He turns you around in his many arms and lays you to rest like a bride. “From your toes to the finest hair atop your head—I covet it all—like treasure.”

He doesn’t rush while wading through the filth who’d tried to take you away from him, basking in their still-warm blood as if soaking his feet with their failure. He would have made it long-lasting if they’d come close enough to breathe the same air as you. But since you’d begged for him to spare them, he’d acted with mercy—making their deaths quick and all but painless.

The things he does for you.

“Does it frighten you to be the only one I care about?” he asks.

You look disgusted. He finds it rather cute.

 “No,” you reply. “It simply hurts.”

He throws his head back and laughs then—boisterously. The echo rings throughout the temple, even making ripples in the red. When he looks down at you again, he bears a great smile.

“Fine then, as you wish.” Evidence of his amusement remains while he speaks. “I won’t subject you to any more carnage from this moment onward.”

You know better than to take him for his word—especially when that awful grin stretches his face.

“No, I shall rather keep you tucked away where no one will ever dare go looking—and before I even dare come see you myself, I’ll make sure to have washed the filth off first so as not to trouble your pretty head with my savage habits. Now, does that sound satisfactory to you, my Queen?”

He’s mocking you, you surmise—cooing at you, laughing at the way you mourn. But it shouldn’t surprise you. If he can rip people to shreds without so much as batting any of his eyes, making light of their deaths isn’t all that more of an offense.

“All this inanity has given me an appetite,” he states with a hearty sigh—dismissing any further argument. “Let’s find Uraume and eat.”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[yawnderu]

"Quit lookin' at me like that." He demands, accent growing thicker by the minute at his frustration.

"Like what?" You manage to gasp out, cheeks swollen and bloody at the beating you just took. Your hands are clasped together on your lap, forced to sir on your knees as you look up at him.

What stared back at you wasn't your loving Simon, no— this creature was much different. Ghost was glaring down at you, eyes cold and devoid of emotion other than pure, raw anger.

"Like a fuckin' lost puppy. Like you don't know what you did." His grip on the trigger tightens, holding the muzzle to your temple.

Please, tell me it isn't true. For the love of God, tell me it's all a lie.

"You leaked our information to fuckin' Konni?" He asks in disbelief, just wanting to confirm what he knew all along. It all connected once he found out; the late night escapades, the detached look in your eyes, how you kept missing every single celebration with the team claiming you were busy. Maybe if he noticed sooner, things would have been different.

Your silence and the way your head hangs low in shame is all the confirmation he needs. His gloved hand grips the pistol harder, the rough material almost merging with his skin.

You don't even have the courage to look at me.

"Everythin' we did together... I trusted you with my bloody life. I told you all my secrets and let you see all of me, and this is how you fuckin' pay me?" He doesn't even wait for an answer, three silenced gunshots ringing in his ears as he dumps the bullets into your chest, looking away before he hears the familiar thud of a body hitting the ground.

Goddammit. God damn it all to fucking hell.

Simon chokes on a harsh breath, the corners of his mouth twisting into a frown underneath his balaclava, jaw slackening. He doesn't dare look at you, unwilling to let his last image of you be a pool of blood with dead eyes.

He cried all his tears when he was a little kid, yet he can somehow feel the familiar sting in his eyes, causing him to sigh loudly and shake his head. His pistol goes back in its holster as he turned to leave, not sparing you a single glance.

Dying alone is a scary thought. You come to the world in a room full of people, your mother's happy face looking at her own creation, nurses and doctors smiling and celebrating you even when all your tiny body can do is to cry.

The thought of death isn't what scares you, no. Being a soldier for the special forces only ends two ways: retirement or going home in a box. That's something you came to terms with a long time ago, when your much younger hand held the pen, signing the contract that sold your soul to your comrades, a silent eternal promise of "we fight together, and we die together".

Your shaky hands grasp at the snow as you drag yourself forward, gear all of sudden heavier than ever; crushing you down like Atlas holding the sky. Your blood leaves a dirty trail on the pure, clean snow, marking you down as an easy target if Simon decides to come back for you— you know Ghost won't.

By the time someone manages to find you, your fingers are purple and your lips are painted an awful shade of blue, body adorned with burns from the cold snow digging into your bare skin. You allow yourself to rest as soon as the warmth of someone's hand makes contact with your skin, barely able to register the panicked scream and loud orders being barked.

Labeled as a hero after saving the country from Makarov's terrorist attack, Simon sported a new brand of chest candy on his uniform. Colorful ribbons adorned the right side of his blazer. His chest is still puffed out with pride as he steps into his small flat in London, all memories of you thrown away, including the ring he kept hidden in a drawer.

''Cute shoulder pads.'' Your finger hovers above the trigger, finally stepping out of the dark.

[kenyummy]

꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ conspiracies ✰ jaime reyes ꒱

✰ SYNPOSIS : jaime just really wants you to think he's cool. in both forms. too bad you're a raging conspiracy theorist.

inspired by this post so thank you for making my mind spiral insert heart emoji. i love xolo (as everyone who knows me both online and irl knows) and i love jaime so this was just a treat

also this is highkey movie jaime coded but yj him works too tbh

!!! LIVA DNI !!!

It was a regular Monday morning when you first met Blue Beetle.

Your life was as normal as could be, and you were perfectly content living your life out like this. Growing up fine. Leaving school fine. Entering college and trying to find a real, lasting job fine.

Today was a regular old day in your regular old life. Nothing special, really. Just on your way to work at your local coffee shop—mostly to pay off your crippling student loans—in an admittedly nice (and safe) neighbourhood.

Which is why you weren't expecting this. In such a dramatic fashion—a random in a ski-mask comes by and tugs your tote bag off your shoulder, and starts running. The tote bag with your expensive ass phone, and those authentically beautiful earrings you'd gotten as a gift for your 18th inside—so of course you take running in your scuffed and ragged sneakers.

"Wh—hey! Come back here!" You yell out as people on the sidewalk rush to the side from the random pushing their way through. They may be covered by a good ten layers—but by god were they fast. No way you could catch up to them.

But you'd be damned if you didn't try. Too bad you didn't join track in high school—you have a feeling it really would've helped right now.

You consider yelling out that you have a barista's salary and you doubt there'd be much of worth inside, but you're stopped before you do.

The random thief in question is not on the ground anymore. In fact—he's three feet up in the air and dangling upside down, screaming. The ski mask falls off and you see it's actually one of your regulars in your shop.

Your eyes widen, then narrow into a hard glare "Dan?! What the hell, man?!" His eyes look anywhere but at you. He knows he's never going to get his double-caffeinated espresso ever again.

But then, you look at exactly what is holding him from that unfortunate angle. A superhero... you think. Black and blue suit—tendril-like things behind him, one holding up your thief. Blasters underneath his feet that seem to allow him to levitate so high. Pure white eyes and no mouth in sight.

"Why don't you give the lady back her bag, huh?" His voice—while it's partially distorted, he seems rather giddy. Maybe he's a new hero. You were sure as hell Batman wouldn't be running around here.

The bag drops to the ground as soon as he says it, and you rush to collect your things. People around crowd in awe at the heroic act, but all you can think about is how grateful you are that you hadn't lost your phone. Thank god for Block Blast.

You look up—Dan falls to the ground with a grunt while the hero lands gracefully on his feet, hands on his hips—you can practically feel the self-satisfaction radiating off him. He looks to you. "Are you alright, ahem—ma'am?"

Did he just make his voice deeper?

You nod, and spare him a smile. "Yes, thanks to you. I can't tell you how grateful I am that I won't be late for work now."

The hero seems rather confused, "Wait, what—"

"Thank you!" You call out as you take off, running. You had fifteen minutes until your shift started and no way you'd miss it and in turn miss an hour of pay. The hero seems to try and call out to you—but the crowd around him doesn't let him move an inch—and it's like clockwork when a camera and microphone get shoved in his face like he's nothing but a trashy celebrity.

"And, Blue Beetle—how is it that you came to this civilian's aid so fast?"

"I guess I just have a sixth-sense for saving people in need."

You grab the television remote and switch the TV off before you roll your eyes back into your skull. Jaime—your friend and currently the only person at the stand with you—seems less than pleased you did so.

"Hey! What's with you?"

You make a face. "Sixth-sense for saving people? Seriously? Even you have to admit, it's pretty stupid."

"Didn't you say that you were the one he saved this morning? And that's why you weren't late for your shift?"

Resting your elbows on the glass stand, you call for your lazy-ass co-worker (currently on his phone in the back) to take over the cash register when a customer comes in.

You continue to talk away with Jaime, who's shining a glass. "Just because I'm thankful he saved me doesn't mean he's exempt from my well-deserved critique. He sounds like a less-inspiring Superman right now."

Jaime laughs, muttering something under his breath before turning back up to look at you. "That's just mean, chica. I think he's pretty cool, no?"

He places the glass on the table near the blender—while you huff indignantly, leaning backwards. "You've always been like this with superheroes, and so have I. Some things will never change, Jaime. Just like the fact we're both in crippling debt at this dead-end job."

"But... you don't even think he is a little cool... at all? I mean—the costume's pretty sick." He stands over you, arms crossed and smiling.

You pause, thinking. "... Alright, fine. Yeah, the costume looks cool. But I think his head's too big for his body. ...Hey, he kinda reminds me of you."

"... You don't say?"

"I do say," you affirm, smiling at his scoff. "Time to get back to the shop, Reyes. You can uplift any bugs you want after our shift is done."

You press your finger to his nose and move him back, bouncing out of the back room as he watches your retreating figure—deep in thought.

You thought that would be the end of it. Maybe, in a few months or so—you'd get into trouble and a hero would come and save you like in the movies. Maybe even in a few weeks or so. Depending on how unlucky you were.

Well, it seems Lady Luck has a hate boner for you, because this was just getting ridiculous.

On Tuesday, all your stuff was thrown high into a tree and only a being with flight could reach it. The day after that, somebody was about to trip in front of your bus—saved at the nick of time by a blue hero.

Thursday, you were almost hit by a bus this time—swerving on the road like it were drunken, only for the two parts of a now disconnected bus to fall beside you, and a beetle in front of you with a smile.

On the last day of a regular school week—you nearly tripped with several large coffees on your tray—and it doesn't take a genius to figure out why your shirt was not littered with stains and why you still had a job. You don't even know where he came from.

Saturday, a pipe broke and boiling water was about to spray you in the middle of the street. Before it even touched you, a holographic blue shield formed around you and saved you from the embarrassment of a see-through shirt.

On Sunday—you were sick of this. An hour into your shift—somebody rushes in with a bat and shatters the glass casing of your displayed pasteries, stuffing them all into their mouth (how did they even do that...?) and taking off.

Before you could even react—or anyone could, for that matter—Blue Beetle was already there, in the doorframe with a tut and a shaking head. You almost lose your mind as a crowd surrounds him with a tied-up thief beside his feet.

You practically collapse when you get back home, in your dingy little apartment. You lay down like a starfish on your bed and think back to everything that had happened to you the past week.

Robbery. Sabotage (you think). Near-death experiences, twice. Plain and simple clumsiness. Probably sabotage again. And more robbery.

This was very not normal. You've come to this conclusion. Whatever supernatural entity wanted you gone was very aggressive about it. You couldn't possibly imagine what you did to piss somebody off this bad.

Maybe they just didn't like your caramel frappuccino. (You don't think it met health standards, anyway).

But what's even more abnormal than that—Blue Beetle is just always there. Every single time. Without fail—as soon as a problem arises, he just ever so conveniently shows up and saves the day like a true hero.

You practically groan into your pillow.

It's like you haven't had one normal day since he showed up. Since he first saved you. It doesn't help that Jaime insists he's a totally awesome hero just doing his job—saving civilians.

No... he's not just saving you... he's practically always there. A hero can be good. But never that good. He doesn't have super speed, nor (from what you can tell) a literal sense for danger (as you watched a building collapse on him on live TV).

There's no tangible way for him to be constantly saving you, in all different areas of the city, in no particular order.

Unless...

You enter your workplace, determined. This Monday morning you found yourself being mugged in an alleyway you didn't even know existed until today.

Take a wild guess who showed up as the gun pressed to your temple.

You discard your tote and shrug off your coat with snowflakes dribbled all over. You can't believe it had just started snowing today of all day—perhaps the universe sensed your imminent realisation and decided to try and hinder you.

Too bad, the universe could take its pity dick out of your mouth—because you didn't need it.

Today you and Jaime didn't have an overlapping shift together. His finished as soon as yours' started, actually—watching him slip on a thick jacket and greet you with a smile. "Hey, [name], what's—"

You stomp towards him—looking very mildly threatening in your green apron. You point at him, digging your nail into his chest. "You. me. Back of the shop. Now."

His eyes widen as you grab his collar and practically drag him through the cooking areas—co-workers laughing as they holler, "Jaime's gonna get some!"

Yeah, he's getting some alright.

Some conspiracy theories.

You practically shove him into a wall when you kick the back door shut.

"Jaime—I've known you since high school. Didn't really like you then—but we ended up in the same course at the same college and now we're bonded for life. You're my dude, my bro, my hermano—that's why I'm telling you this." You speak, deadly seriously. You're staring up at him with murder in your eyes.

"... Wait, you didn't like me in high school?" He deflates.

"Not important. What is important is that I need to tell you this—because I feel like I'm going crazy." You grab onto his shoulders and glare into his eyes. "I think Blue Beetle is stalking me."

A few seconds. Almost nervous silence. You don't break a sweat, but Jaime seems to be perspiring like he'd just run a marathon—eyes looking anywhere but at you. "... Why do you think so...?"

"Every single time I'm in trouble, he's always there in the blink of an eye! I mean—it's more than saving me, it's every single time. This week has literally been the worst week of my life, and he's always there. The minute somebody takes something from the cafe on my shift—boom, he's in the doorframe before I can blink. Bus about to ram straight into me? He slices that motherfucker in half."

Jaime sweats even more now. "He probably does that with everyone."

"But he doesn't! Yesterday I saw somebody robbing a convenience store in broad daylight—and the police were already there before he even showed up! And you know how long the police like to take their sweet time." You shake his shoulders back and forth. "Jaime, I swear to god—I'm not crazy. He is freaking stalking me. I don't know why, or what for, but—"

An uncomfortable laugh escapes his lips as he pushes you back, lightly, so you're not practically squishing your nose against his. "[name], I'm pretty sure you're overthinking this. That's crazy—I mean, Blue Beetle is a superhero, why would he stalk—"

"I don't know!" You practically explode before he can finish, pacing back and forth with your chin cradled and your eyes narrowed into a glare at the ground. "Maybe he thinks I'm his Lois Lane or something—maybe that's how Superman got the girl and this newbie thinks he can replicate that with me. Argh! Maybe he thinks I'm going to become a villain?! Maybe he's from the future where I already am a villain, and my first step to villainy was getting mugged in an alleyway! You can never tell with these time travellers."

Jaime steadies you with a hand on your shoulder, sighing deeply—as if he's conflicted on saying something, "Look, [name]... I think... you've gotten the wrong idea. I didn't want to tell you this, but—"

Something dings. Your phone starts buzzing in your pocket and you gasp. "Shit! My shift is starting! I'll catch you up on my theory if anything else happens—tell me whatever it is later!"

You run back into the shop like your life depends on it—and Jaime's left standing there in the snow, dejected and thoroughly disenchanted.

Tuesday morning. Everything really hurts.

The sun shines directly into your eyes the moment you awake, and have to reel back from the heavenly brightness. You have no shift today—which means, as far as you're concerned, you're free to go do whatever you'd like.

You decide to stay in bed as long as possible.

Wrapped up in cosy white sheets and limps sprawled and messy over your frame—it takes only a few hours for you to get tired of laying around and get up to actually do something.

You rummage through your closet. Yesterday was your hair-wash day, so you'd be damned if you didn't go out and show off your fresh hair. Maybe you should go and see Jaime and his family. It's been a while since you had some of his abuela's cooking.

Yeah. That'd be nice. No trouble, no weird situations, and certainly no superheroes. Just you, your friend, and his sweet family.

You pick out a cute coat and even cuter flared leggings—grabbing your phone and mints (you never know) and your keys. You walk out the door with your head held high and hope in your bones.

You should've known better. Lady Luck wasn't about to let you run around without being completely miserable—no way. Maybe this time was your fault—dividing away from the main street and going through a shortcut that was devoid of people and rather thick with heavy snow.

It was you and your uggs against the world—stomping through heavy white and snuggling closer into your scarf as snowflakes flutter into your freshly washed hair. Dammit.

Humming a little song to yourself—you don't let this get you down. You're too excited to eat some really good authentic food. No way you're going to be a Debby Downer in their lovely home!

There's a shift in the roof in front of you. It creaks a little—and you instinctively look up. Your eyes widen in panic, and your feet are so buried in the snow you can hardly move—a large pile of white fluff that would be enough to bury you alive is about to do exactly that.

It tumbles, starts to fall and you're about to accept the status of a human snowwoman—when a figure dives in front of you and a blue bubble forms around your figure.

You open your eyes, cracking the lids and peering ever so slightly. It's not cold. It's not even fluffy. You don't feel anything different—but you do see a sheepish blue and black figure, all too familiar, trapped within this same bubble.

You could see red right now. "Are you... Are you serious?!"

You expect him to jolt back, to be surprised—but he doesn't visibly seem to be. He stands there, hand behind the back of his neck and eyes focused on the snow that falls over his bubble like it were miles more interesting than you.

You barely notice it, however—as you finally decide to confront him about your little theory. "Are you stalking me?!"

Blue Beetle gasps. You've even shocked yourself a little bit. You didn't expect to be so blunt about it—but whatever gets the job done.

"Wh—stalking you?! Are you serious?! Why would I... stalk you...?" His tone starts to grow suspiciously more like a question as he nears the end of his quip—you narrow your eyes even further and press your finger accusingly into his chest plate.

"You literally show up every single time I'm in the mildest situations of danger! The moment I trip, the moment my things are stuck—the moment a freakin' bus is about to ram into me, you're always there! Are you just following me around, waiting for the next thing to happen?"

"I thought youd be more grateful! I'm saving you from danger, aren't I?" He sasses. You sneer.

"Of course I'm grateful, but tripping and falling with coffee in my hand isn't really dangerous, in my books." You cross your arms, staring up at him and his pure white eyes. "Now, if you don't have a good explanation for this, I swear on my life I will—"

You don't really have a threat on what you can do to an actual superhero—so you're kind of glad (hidden underneath all the initial shock) that he does something that steals the voice from your throat.

With one swoop—his mask is ripped off his face—a head of curly hair spills out from underneath and a face is revealed to be one you recognise so vividly.

You step back a little, eyes and mouth wide open, "... Jaime? You're the Blue Beetle...? What the hell... when did this even happen...? Why are you a freaking superhero now?! Why didn't you tell me?!"

"I'll answer everything later, I promise. I just..." He averts his gaze, lips pressed tightly together. "I... I wasn't stalking you, chica. I... I just didn't want anything to happen to you, so... I just happened to go around your usual routes while patrolling the city."

For a moment, you pause—and all the embarrassment hits you at once, like a freight train. You ranted to Blue Beetle about... Blue Beetle stalking you. What a life. But you don't let it show, you can't let him know your weakness right now. You're supposed to be the accusatory one here.

"So... you were stalking me, Reyes?" You lift a brow. "And you did come barging into my shop and lifted me into your arms before I could trip and lose my job."

That particular moment seems to make him flush and he turns his head to the side, "I... I just... you know..." Trailing off, it falls quiet.

A few moments of awkward silence make him speak up again. "I... wanted you to think I was... cool... and I didn't want you to lose your job... cause then that'd mean I wouldn't see you every day... and I'd really gotten used to it, you know? I swear. That was it."

You could almost laugh in his face. But you're a really good friend, so you don't. "... You know, that's such a you thing to do, Jaime. Idiot. I can't believe you let me think I had a super-powered creep following me around." A smile crawls onto your face, and it's almost so infectious it latches onto him.

His lips turn upwards, "Come on... don't embarrass me, chica. Is it wrong for a guy to want a girl to think both he and his alter-ego are cool?"

"You can't have 'em all." You shake your head, then turn around to look at the snow piled over the force field. "How are we gonna get out? I was heading over to your house, to start with."

"Ah... seriously?" He seems starstruck and almost dopey—but shakes his head quickly and reaches his hand out. The mask reconstructs over his face just as he grins, pearly white peeking out. "Come on, hermosa."

A few seconds later—you're being carried in his arms as he bursts out of the snow—hovering in the sky as you cling on for dear life. "Ho... Holyyyy shit! How do you do this?!"

Everything is so small under you, and you feel motion sick just looking at the top of snowy buildings. He laughs like he finds your fright amusing. "Don't worry, you're not going anywhere."

You pause, eyes focused on your hands for a second,d before you look up at him and his pure white eyes. "... Yeah I know. You did take care of me for a whole week... even if I didn't know it was you. I... never got to thank you for that, did I?"

His tone is light—amused, "Yeah. You were too busy ranting to me about your conspiracy theory."

Your cheeks burn and you slap his arm—knowing he probably didn't even feel it. "Shut up. I was right, wasn't I? Anyways, I'll thank you now. For the whole week.

You lean up and press a chaste kiss to his masked cheek—face feeling hot beneath your touch and you squeeze your eyes closed like you can't bear to look at him. "Thank you... thank you for being there, even if I didn't want you to."

He's stunned into silence for a few moments. Then, he speaks—shakily. "... Y... Yeah. Of course. A... Anything for you."

You smile, softly, "Good. Then how about we go back to your house and I can finally eat some of your abuela's cooking, then?"

"Sounds like a plan, hermosa." He grips you tighter in his hold. "And after that... I could fly you home...?" His voice trails off, expecting you to answer his half-question.

You laugh a little and nod, smiling. Arms wrapped around his shoulder tighter when you speak, "If that's the only thing you wanna do, Reyes."

Another moment of silence. Then, he hisses, seemingly flustered and angry, "Khaji—shut up!"

You give him a confused look, but he quickly speaks, "No—no, that's... I'm talking to my scarab..." Another confused glance. "I'll explain it all to you later, I promise."

"Whatever you say, beetle. Now hurry up."

He blasts off to your command and you bury your face in his chest as you rip through the snowy clouds.

Perhaps your co-workers were right, and Jaime really did get some that day.

[yandere-romanticaa]

hi my love! is it ok if i can request any mtp character that has a darling that cannot speak english very well and has an accent? so when she gets kidnapped or when character acts like yandere towards her, she is confused because she doesnt really understand some of the english? but she tries her best to speak english haha<3

i’m sorry if it is hard to understand me, english isn’t my first language :< (like the darling above!! lol) please take care ana, i love you so much<3 and feel ok to ignore this, i just thought it wouldve been cute haha

The world had bowed to the United Kingdom. There was not a single corner of the globe in which the massive nation had not stepped foot in, trampling the lives of the innocent and forcing their customs onto the so-called "savages". Even if one was not from a colony, the effects of the nation could still be felt. Each little ripple could cause a massive tide, be it good or bad.

This is why you wanted to come to London.

Start fresh, seek out a new life. Oh, the thought of leaving your family terrified you to the core but the prospect of a better future was just far too good to pass up on.

London was a city of invention and hope, a place in which things were constantly in motion. Your English was abysmal at best, and the fact that you were foreign did not go unnoticed either. The highborn lords and ladies would look down from their carriages, as if they were the mighty gods who ruled over everything and anything that dared to take breath.

No matter. There was no time to worry about that.

Find work, get a roof over your head and some food in your belly. Those are the primary objectives. Make a fat paycheck and send some money back to family and loved ones, the thought of making their lives easier made your heart do backflips. With nothing but a single suitcase and almost no money, you were no better than prey in this den of wolves.

Fate was a fascinating mistress as none of the wolves had managed to sink their fangs into your supple flesh.

It was as if the stars themselves had gazed down at you and blessed you with a man so kind and gentle, a man who just so happened to be looking for someone who could clean his very expensive and lovely manor.

His name was Albert James Moriarty and on that very day, he had become your savior. He graciously offered his hand to you, his elegance shining brightly all over him like the sun as you stared at him in awe, wondering how you had managed to get so lucky so soon. In no time he gave you a uniform and informed you of your daily duties as best as he could. You had expected your lord to become impatient with you, to at least scoff under his breath for your inability to formulate a basic sentence, and yet that was never the case.

Lord Albert did his best to be patient with you, using hand gestures, facial expressions and sometimes even drawing out whatever his desires were or what needed to be done. He would mimic drinking tea with his hands, point to places that needed dusting and he made sure that you could at least understand basic greetings and farewells, just in case you needed them. When you had the spare time, he would have you sit down in his private office, the fire crackling behind you both as he handed you a book to read out loud. Albert would work on his papers as you clutch onto the book, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as you did your best to grasp the English language. In due time, you realized that he was giving you children's tales which were always filled with easy sentences, basic grammar and just a hint of whimsy.

There would always be a hint of a smile on his face as you read to him, as if he was pleased with your efforts.

The thought alone made you want to weep from joy. Preparing for the worst case scenario seemed to be absolutely unnecessary as Albert always had everything covered when it came to you and your needs.

Although, your lord did seem to act a bit odd at times.

That dashing green gaze of his would trail after you enter the room, his deep and soothing voice always lingering nearby as you dust the bookshelves, his accent only making him more appealing that he ought to be.

Falling for him was not an option. It just couldn't be. He was your boss - your lord - and surely a man like that would never cast his gaze to someone like you, right? His wandering eyes have been chalked up to figments of your imagination, the gentle mornings you would share with him were nothing but British customs you were yet to get used to.

Lord Albert was not a wolf.

He would never harm you.

And there was truth to that. You were one of the few people that Albert James Moriarty would never even think about laying a finger on.

As for the rest of high society...

That was a different tale to tell.

My darling, your English is lovely! If it makes you feel any better, English is also not my mother language as well! My apologies if this was too rushed, I just wanted to write something for Albert and you gave me the excuse to do so. Thank you for requesting and I hope you enjoyed it!

[pinknipszz]

IT'S BUZZCUT SEASON, ANYWAY

⤷ gojo satoru, ryomen sukuna, and fushiguro toji

SATORU thought it was going to be a harmless prank. hair grows back after all.

well. he didn’t anticipate his “harmless prank” to cause this much emotional distress. 

“it’s so ugly!” you scream, hiding your tear-stained face in your hands in a desperate attempt to forget the horrific image of your sweet, sweet boyfriend and his white buzzcut. entirely dismissive of the fact that you’re in a public setting—a park, actually—satoru quickly scoops you up in his arms with consolation on his lips.

“it’s not that bad baby,” he swears. “it’ll grow back in a few weeks anyway.” you spiral at his words as images of that vile haircut flash in your mind. after putting you back on your feet, satoru tries to pull your hands away from your pretty face, but his efforts turn futile once he hears something along the lines of: “it is that bad!” 

it comes out as a hoarse, incoherent muffle, but he understands it nonetheless.

“i’ll wear a wig!” he blurts out desperately. "there's a shop down the street. we'll buy one right now." your shoulders stop shaking as you fall silent, and for a moment, satoru thinks he made the right choice of words. When you barrel into another fit of loud sobs, however, an unretrievable part of him chips away.

with a heavy heart, satoru sighs and holds you against his chest, cradling your head. he really fucked up this time. people throw him strange looks, but others—especially women—only sigh and shake their heads sympathetically at your anguish. no one can really blame you for reacting like this anyway. 

“SUKUNA,” you gasp in awe at the sight of him. 

you’re hardly seated yet, but the thin glass shield does little to spare him from the bewildered look on your face as you gawk at the short, neat buzz in place of his usual slick back. he feels his eye twitch.

when the officer coughs behind him, sukuna throws a mean look over his shoulder before ripping the telephone off the wall and holding it close to his ear. he only gets to hear your sweet voice once a month, and he’ll be damned if you waste it on his hair. “don’t ask about it,” he gruffs out. “tell me what you’ve been up to.”

you blink once—twice, even—before mirroring his actions and grabbing the prison’s janky telephone (having done this so many times, you don’t even wince when you touch some mysterious residue left by the previous visitor). you try to speak, your lips curling around the syllables of a word, but not a single sound escapes your throat. 

sukuna rolls his eyes at your loss for words. “come on. talk to me, doll.” his light tap against the glass earns him a warning that you don’t quite catch from the officer, but by the quiet string of curses that leaves the receiver, you guess it must have something to do with cutting his minutes. which you absolutely did not want.

“i think it fits you,” you say hurriedly. “you have a nice face, so the buzz works really well.” your delivery wasn’t the most elegant, and you might have even stuttered in between, but sukuna nearly groans when he hears you again. god he misses you. more than you miss his pretty pink hair.

TOJI thinks his life can’t get any worse—or at least that’s what he thought before getting into a car accident last week.

by the grace of god, toji survived with only a few minor injuries, but his hair, now full of a million tiny glass shards, wasn’t so lucky. once he realized that they were impossible to wash out, toji knew there was only one thing left to do.

a loud shriek echoes through the apartment. 

“toji—why are you bald?” you point an accusatory finger at your boyfriend of three years, standing in the middle of your bathroom with a towel around his waist. maybe under different circumstances, you’d be drooling over the delicious sight, but how could you possibly do that when his hair is so close to his scalp!

toji simply won’t stand for this slander. now don’t get him wrong. he loves you more than anything in the world, but the last thing any guy wants to hear is his name and the word “bald” in the same sentence. “i’m not bald goddamnit!” he barks back with equal ferocity. “it’s called a buzzcut. get it right, woman!”

the hilarity of the situation has you doubling over in laughter. there are tears ruining your mascara, but you don’t half the mind to care, and neither does he as tension melts away from his shoulders. toji chuckles and shakes his head at your desperate wheezes.

this interaction could’ve gone much, much worse.

(masterlist) | (a/n: i don't think anyone else in the series would get a buzz tbh)

[002yb]

“I think I came back wrong.”

It’s a quiet admission that he doesn’t mean to share.  He’d planned to take it to his grave.  He’d wanted to deny it, refuse it because the sentiment is too damn sad.  The feeling haunts him though, weaving in a tangle through his bones and bearing down hard on his lungs.  There’s so much grief in him that he feels like he’s drowning, so he tries to make room by acknowledging it–this thing that he’s tried to convince himself is wrong, wrong, wrong.  He gives his vulnerabilities a voice, then feels betrayed by the truth he hears in them.

Just like that, it’s not a thought anymore.  Broken as the words come, soft as he speaks them–they’re there and it’s real and it hurts.  It makes him laugh, empty and brittle; a wet gasp as he breaks his own heart.

“I think I shouldn’t have come back at all.”

Jason has always been best at hurting himself.  Sometimes he thinks it’s a compulsion, some twisted illusion that he can choose how he’s hurt.  Other times he feels it’s poor coping, a defense to spare himself.  The pitiful truth:  Jason can’t help but hope.  A residual folly from another life.  It follows him like a ghost, all Robin bones and little wings.

Jason isn’t that boy any longer, but his voice is still just as small.  It comes out a bitten back sob, like gravel in a wound.  The bandages around his throat do little to stave off the hurt of a child scorned.  He wants to tear them away, rip at the stitches and bleed out the wretched, awful parts of himself because Jason must be something truly wicked if he can make Dick look like this.

Gone is that inherent, defining hope of Robin.  Gone is that sense of wonder and magic.

“Why did you have to save me?” Jason mourns.

He’s too stubborn to cry, but his eyes well with tears regardless.  They cling heavy to his lashes and he knows that if he blinks, they’ll overflow.  So Jason grits his teeth, takes a shuddering breath, and watches Dick, instead.  Waits on him, like he always has.

Dying sunlight gilds the side of Dick’s face, painting him in warmth and shadow.  His eyes are gold-tipped and red-rimmed.  He looks tired, like he’s been fighting sleep.  Like he’s haunted.  Like he’s hurt.  Dick catches Jason’s gaze and holds it despite how painful it is.  Confronts him with resolve and a quiet admission of his own.  A sentiment just as sad and a truth just as damning.

Dick aches for him.  Every beat of his heart is like a cry torn from his chest.

“I couldn’t lose you again.”

====

@graytodd: glorious magnificent wonderful art inspo

[justcat-judging]

₊ ⊹ 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 ⊹ ₊

˚ʚ"I could give you the world, but none of it would matter—because the one thing you wanted was the only thing I never learned how to give."ɞ˚

˚ʚReo Mikage x Reader Agnstɞ˚

Reo Mikage had always been able to get whatever he wanted.

It wasn’t arrogance—it was just a fact. Born into wealth, raised with privilege, and armed with a sharp mind and relentless ambition, there was nothing out of reach for him. If he wanted something, he worked for it. If he couldn't have it, he found a way to make it happen.

And yet, you remained the one thing he could never hold on to.

From the start, you were different. You never looked at him the way others did—with awe, admiration, or envy. You never treated him as someone special. When he showed up in sleek cars and designer brands, you barely spared them a glance. When he pulled out his black card, you only rolled your eyes.

"You don’t have to do that, Reo."

"I can pay for my own coffee, you know."

"I don’t need you to buy me anything."

At first, he thought it was modesty. That maybe you were just shy about accepting things. That if he kept giving—kept showing you through actions rather than words—you would understand.

So he tried harder.

He paid attention to everything you liked, memorized the little things you mentioned in passing. If you so much as glanced at something, he made sure it was yours the next day. He planned surprise trips to places he thought you'd love, filled your space with things meant to make your life easier, brighter, better.

And every time, you refused.

"Reo, I don’t need this."

"Take it back, I won’t use it."

"Stop spending money on me."

It confused him. Frustrated him. Hurt him.

No one had ever turned down what he offered before. No one had ever made him feel like giving wasn't enough.

"Why do you keep rejecting everything?" he asked one evening, voice quieter than he intended. "Do you not like what I pick for you?"

You sighed, rubbing your temples. "Reo, it's not about that."

"Then what?" His fingers curled into fists at his sides. "Tell me what you want. I’ll get it for you."

You looked at him then, really looked at him—like you were seeing something he couldn’t. Like you understood something he didn’t.

And then, with the softest voice, you spoke the words that would haunt him for years to come.

"I don’t think I could ever love someone… who thinks money can buy anything."

Silence.

A dull ringing filled his ears as the words settled in.

Reo felt his stomach drop, his pulse slow, his world tilt just slightly off its axis.

"I—what?"

Your gaze didn’t waver. "I don’t need things, Reo. I don’t need gifts or grand gestures. I just wanted you. But the only way you know how to show love is through money, and… that’s not enough for me."

He opened his mouth—closed it again.

Because what could he say?

That he didn’t know any other way? That all his life, love had been given in the form of rewards, luxuries, and things? That without them, he wasn’t sure if he had anything else to offer?

He wanted to argue. To tell you that he did love you, that he would do anything to make you stay.

But the look in your eyes told him it was already over.

And as you turned and walked away—leaving him with nothing but his wealth and an empty heart—Reo Mikage realized, for the first time in his life…

Money couldn’t buy the one thing he truly wanted.

You.

(I had a feeling)

[kaveehs]

Sweetener — Gojo Satoru

fem!reader, wc 0.8k, fluff, established relationship, workaholic!gojo, first years make a cameo <3

synopsis: gojo had always liked sweet things, you were no exception

a/n: i’ve been so busy lately but i finally finished this piece!!! recently i’ve been missing gojo so much so i had so much fun with this <333

requested by: @the-weeping-author

Gojo Satoru undoubtedly had a sweet tooth.

Sure, he had a variety of pastries and candies at his disposal that he could use to curb his insatiable need for sweetness in his life, but they all paled in comparison to you. From the moment Satoru first met you, he could tell something was fairly different about you.

At a first glance, he could tell you were a bit apprehensive of him. This was nothing new, after all he carried such an intimidating title attached to him since he was young. Despite it all, you always greeted him with a smile and such warm words. There was no doubt that you were a kind girl at heart, but there was so much more to it than that to him. Your compassionate nature didn’t come with a catch, nor did it waiver the closer you and him became, it only strengthened his feelings towards you.

You always thought he had been exaggerating when he had expressed how just you alone could calm his overwhelming sweet tooth when your relationship with him first began, but he truly meant every word of it, no matter how dramatic it sounded.

“Honey!” Satoru called out to you, snapping you out of your thoughts. Of course it was only natural for him to call you something so sweet you couldn’t help but smile. “I didn’t expect you to be back so soon, let alone spare time to visit me at work, how was it?” Before coming to his office, you had been scoping out a new bakery he had been dying to go to, but couldn’t due to being constantly cooped up at work.

“Great, I brought back some things I thought you might like,” you answered, handing him the small box of pastries you’d saved for him. He pulled back half of his blindfold, happily accepting the box into his hands which had been much larger than the pastry box. Just as he flipped open the lid, he noticed a shift in your expression.

“What’s with the sad face, sweetheart? You wanna try some too? You know I don’t mind sharin’,” he teased. His comment caught you somewhat by surprise— you didn’t even notice the change in your face.

“No, it’s not that,” you slightly bit the lower corner of your lip. “I just wish we could’ve gone together. You’ve been workin’ so much, y’know?”

Satoru paused for a moment, placing the treats on his desk as he got up from the comfort of his office chair. “I know baby,” he uttered sympathetically as his arms engulfed your body. “‘M sorry,” he said as he pressed his lips to your forehead. “When I have free time, I promise I’ll take you on the best trip ‘n you’ll have my full attention.”

“You mean it,” your eyes glistened with excitement at his words. A full trip where you could simply enjoy each other’s company, the thought alone was lovely.

“Y’know I don’t like to make promises I can’t honor,” a grin found its way to his face. “Of course I mean it.”

As you subconsciously squeezed him tighter, pulling him closer for a soft kiss, you heard the sound of snickers just as your lips were about to connect… his first year students. You pulled away from him, despite the small pout on his face.

“Before we get to that, I gotta assign my students here, more work. Clearly they seem to have a bunch of time to kill,” he spoke in a sarcastic yet matter-of-fact manner, laughing at their pleads for mercy. “Utahime’s been houndin’ me about your academic performance anyway. Perfect timing if you ask me.”

“Come on ‘Toru, go easy on them,” you remarked while trying to contain your own laughter.

“…Maybe I’ll let the assignments slide for today.”

“And just like that, he folds,” Itadori blinked, in awe at how quick he was to change his decision because of your interjection.

“It’s almost impressive how much control she has over someone like Gojo,” Nobara chimed in. Megumi shook his head.

“It’s nothing like that,” he sighed as if he knew all too well the truth of his mentor’s nature. “He’s just soft. Always has been.”

“Now now,” Gojo cleared his throat, it was telling he had been a bit embarrassed by the back and forth banter of his students. “Maybe I should switch things up a little bit— and teach you all a small life lesson.” This promise of a new lesson seemed to pique the interests of Nobara and Itadori. “When you find the love of your life—” he began as he looked over to you, however his speech was cut off by the simultaneous groans of his students.

“How informative,” you joked, followed by such a genuine laugh that spread to him so easily. Though you did learn something new with his eight words— that he saw you as the love of his life.

Maybe it wasn’t so bad to be Gojo Satoru’s sweetener afterall.

[hogwartslegacyreactions2]

HLC REACT TO MC HAVING AN OUT OF CHARACTER OUTBURST

Requested by: @ma1egamer

MC had a bad week. The worst week. An awful horrible week. But they still smiled. No one could know what was broiling just beneath the surface. They were the cool popular kid at Hogwarts, they had a reputation. If they just kept up appearances until the end of the day, they could go out after classes and fight a few dark wizards. That would help them de-stress.

They were lost in thought when someone accidentally ran into them, knocking their bag off their arm and causing it to spill its contents all over the floor. One of their ink bottles smashed, staining what was a lengthy essay they had just completed the night before for astronomy.

MC lost their carefully collected shit. "WHY DOES THIS KEEP HAPPENING!? IF ITS NOT ONE THING, ITS ANOTHER!! EVERY! SINGLE! DAY! But, if we didn't have bad weeks, the good weeks would be so amazing." It was like someone flipped a switch. MC was entirely calm again while using their wand to clean up their stuff.

The hall was dead silent. The whole crowd of students and faculty watched MC pack themselves up and walk away smiling.

SEBASTIAN SALLOW: "Welp, I feel sorry for any dark wizards or goblins that cross MC's path today." This included himself. He steered clear.

OMINIS GAUNT: "What happened? Why did they shout like that? Are they okay?" He needs context. He's worried.

ANNE SALLOW: She avoids eye contact with anyone in the crowd. She doesn't know what's going on, don't look at her.

IMELDA REYES: "What, in the actual fuck, was that?"

NATSAI ONAI: She marches after MC. They clearly aren't okay and she wants to know what's up.

GARRETH WEASLEY: MC's outburst made him drop a jar of pickled slugs. Now he was having a bad day too. The smell was awful.

LEANDER PREWETT: "They're cracking under the pressure. Sad."

AMIT THAKKAR: He has shrunk away from the noise. He doesn't deal with that kind of energy very well and removes himself from the situation.

EVERETT CLOPTON: "Merlin's beard, and here I thought Kogawa had a temper."

POPPY SWEETING: "Yeesh, I knew MC had fangs but I've never seen them take it out on a random student. I wonder what's bothering them."

ELEAZAR FIG: "Oh dear." He shuffles through the crowd and shepherds MC away. "What was that about? Are you alright? Please, don't lie to me."

MATILDA WEASLEY: She bristled at MC's volume. She could take house points for that, but instead ask MC to come to her office. She wants a word.

CHIYO KOGAWA: "Move along, everyone. You all have places to be." She shoos the crowd and stops MC from leaving. "Let's talk. My office."

AESOP SHARP: He gets it. As far as anyone is concerned, he saw nothing.

ABRAHAM RONEN: He's immediately by MC's side, helping them with their books. "Can you spare a moment to chat?" He wants them to be actually okay.

MIRABEL GARLICK: She walks quickly to catch up with MC and hands them a colorful bloom. "Here...it's Worry's Blight. It'll help you feel calm. You seem to need some more than me today."

MUDIWA ONAI: She invites MC up for tea. A special blend and good conversation is what they needed.

BAI HOWIN: Everyone has a bad day. There was no confrontation about the items dropped, so she let it go.

DINAH HECAT: "You shouldn't be shouting the halls, MC. However, instead of taking points, I have an assignment for you." She gave them a small price of paper with a location. "This is an ashwinder camp I heard wind of in the Three Broomsticks. It's a big one. Use this information as you may."

CUTHBERT BINNS: He just ghosted on out of there. He had a lecture to prep.

SATYAVATI SHAH: "No shouting in the halls. That's five points, MC." She didn't notice the vein fit to burst on MC's neck when they just smiled back at her.

PHINEAS NIGELLUS BLACK: "Children. Always whining about how hard life is. They know nothing of the real troubles life can throw at you."

[2i1han]

chapter 2 : "you shouldn't be here"

𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 | park wonbin

pairing : wonbin x reader / reader addressed as heo sori

genre : heavy romance , angst , mature , drama | wc : 9.5k

synopsis : a love that was once passionate but toxic leaves you and wonbin trapped in a cycle of desire, distance, and unresolved emotions. even after breaking up, both of you keep finding your way back to each other. as jealousy, regret, and unspoken feelings pull and push you apart, the two of you are forced to confront whether you’re doomed to repeat the mistakes or finally break free.

warnings : adult themes , toxic rs , mentions of cheating , mild language , fade to black , slice of life

playlist : whisper / park jiwoo , heavy heart / rio , the rose song / rio , where am i / jiyul , youra / ral 9002 , k. / cas , when dawn comes again / colde , let it begin / say sue me , new boots / rio , nevertheless / night off

the first week after the break-up with wonbin, you went into full self-destruct mode. you didn't just shut down—you detonated. pressed that invisible red button inside you and let the pain take over your life like a nuclear blast. you obliterated everything that once made you feel whole.

instead, you isolated in regret and alcohol, breathing in guilt and exhaling anger. words flew out of your mouth like knives. sharp, uncontrolled, and cruel towards anyone who dared to check in. the worst part? you didn't even recognize yourself anymore. you did things you used to fear other people for doing—drinking cheap alcohol before noon, lashing out, staying inside with curtains blocking off sunlight, ignoring every knock on the door, every message, every reminder that the world outside still revolved without him. and the job you once said you'd die doing? gone. you quit being a florist. leaving it behind like it was nothing, like it didn't once define you more than any man ever did.

everything around you turned to ashes. karina visited every morning only to be greeted by the same nightmare: bottles scattered everywhere, stale air, you curled at the edge of your bed, wasted. she'd clean the apartment in silence, cook you breakfast you barely touched, and every single day you'd wake up angry at her for coming. you'd yell, say awful things you didn't mean, only to break down moments later, apologizing, sobbing into her arms like a broken child.

in all honesty, you would've gone clinically insane if it weren't for her. she saved you from disappearing into yourself. she was your anchor when you couldn't even recognize the ocean you were drowning in. she even almost paid wonbin a friendly visit—ready to rip him apart with every word she had—if only you hadn't drunkenly begged her not to.

and as for wonbin, you didn't know what became of him. didn't know if he hurt the way you did. didn't know if he missed you, or if he even looked back. but if there was any comfort left, it was this: he wasn't spared from the wreckage either.

the night you left him, he stormed into his studio like a madman. the girl he was with— someone irrelevant, someone disposable, said something, but he didn't even hear it.

"just get the fuck out!" he snapped, veins sprouting on his neck as his fists clenched at his sides.

she didn't argue. just frantically grabbed her things before storming off the studio in fear. and after that, he collapsed onto the couch, face buried in his hands. the room was dark except for the red glow of his desk lamp.

he didn't show up for the annual city exhibition—an event he'd never skipped before. he didn't pick up a camera for two whole weeks. he drank alone in silence and let himself rot from the inside out. his friends tried to check on him, tried to get through. but wonbin was full of thorns, and after you left, those thorns only grew sharper.

━━━

"come on... please give me that," karina tried to coax the bottle from your hand as you sat slumped, groggy on the floor.

your eyes fluttered, bleary and fuzzy. "no. no, just let me—just one more…"

but she didn't let go. she held your wrist, her fingers cold against your feverish skin. "you're not you when you're like this."

you resisted. your grip tightened like a stubborn dog with a bone. but eventually, you gave in. fingers loosening around the bottle.

karina slowly took it from you and placed it on the table, far out of reach, before sitting beside you. the moment her body met yours, you collapsed into her shoulder, the weight of everything crashing down again.

"i regret it, rina…" you cried, voice cracking and soaked in guilt. "i got carried away. but i never wanted him to turn out like that… i know he loved me. i'm sure he did…"

karina didn't scold you. didn't tell you how stupid you sounded, though she easily could have. she just wrapped her arms around you and held you close, like a sister who refused to let you sink any deeper.

because if things weren't so fucked up, she would've slapped you just to knock some sense into your brain. but she knew better. she knew pain like this couldn't be shaken off. it had to bleed out on its own. and she's sure that when the storm passed, you'd come back to yourself. you just had to survive it first.

and she was right, because a month later, you started showing up again. ate full meals, replied to texts, even apologized to the friends you'd lashed out on. they forgave you, some hesitantly, some wholeheartedly. but the one who never left—karina, remained constant.

things weren't still okay, but they were less terrible. the two of you began hanging out again—short walks, quiet dinners, anything to remember that the world still existed outside of your grief. that you still existed outside of him.

you found yourself applying in for a new job but not at the flower shop anymore. now, it was a small, tucked-away restaurant just across the street from your apartment as a waitress. a humble place with warm lighting and laminated menus, the kind of establishment that stayed quiet until meal periods hit. you wore a plain black apron over your uniform, a pencil behind your ear, and your name clipped to your chest.

it wasn't your dream job. not even close. but it was far enough from the little flower shop with the creaking wood floors and sun-kissed windows. far enough from where you met wonbin. far enough from him.

you didn't love the job, but you didn't hate it either. there was comfort in the routine. wiping down tables, refilling glasses, scribbling down orders—it all gave your hands something to do when your mind wanted to wander too far. it let you breathe comfortably. a distraction that didn’t ask too much of you. a simple mercy in your healing.

wonbin had been a turning point in your life—maybe not a good one, but a loud one. you used to be delicate. graceful. people used words like soft and modest to describe you, the kind of woman who wore light colognes that smelled like powders and smiled at strangers without thinking. but after him, you spoke less. there was something quieter in you now, something more guarded. maturer, maybe, but also muted.

karina and her friends from the bar had noticed. they had always been a little rowdy, a little too loud for your old self. but now, they were the only ones who didn't ask questions when you started showing up again—more frequently this time, usually after your morning shifts ended.

back then, you would walk into the bar in your signature pastel dresses—flowy and elegant, with your long hair woven into braids down your back. you'd order a juice mix and sit by the far end of the bar, legs crossed, sipping slowly and watching karina's group laugh too loudly.

now, you enter through the side door in muted tones—casual jeans, gray turtleneck sweaters, your hair slightly shorter from an impulsive night that left strands all over the bathroom sink. you tied it up into a messy ponytail each time you went out, your overgrown bangs swept and tucked behind your ears, a habit now. no more lip gloss. no more pastels. you didn't want to draw attention. just wanted to blend into the world around you.

you sat closer to the counter now, sometimes beside karina, sometimes alone. you ordered cocktails now. light ones. sometimes a strong spirit. never enough to lose control—but just enough to stop thinking.

the change wasn't subtle. it clung to you like a new scent and a new makeup. and you assumed naively that no one really noticed, or if they did, they didn't care.

but there was one person who you thought didn't pay you any mind. at least, not until recently.

he was always there, somewhere in the periphery. he never really talked much, mostly busy with his own crowd or his phone, always nursing a bottle of liquor or fiddling with the playlist behind the bar's bluetooth speaker. you always thought he didn't pay you any mind. just someone mutual.

he began offering small things. a coaster under your drink when you forgot. a quick "you okay?" after your third. one time, when your fingers trembled slightly reaching for your phone, he pushed a glass of water toward you without a word.

it wasn't much. but it made you look at him differently. and maybe, he had been looking at you differently, too.

as you began revisiting the bar more often, it wasn't just the drinks and distraction that kept you coming back. it turned into your whole safe havem, the warm lights, the tunes old r&b playing through dusty speakers that you once disliked—and eunseok's calming presence that somehow makes you feel like you.

he rarely spoke beyond a casual nod or a raised brow when you passed by. but now, it seemed like the silence between you had started to shift. you noticed how he'd lean a little closer when he spoke. how he lingered near your side of the counter more than usual.

━━━

the bar was dim and half-empty, the scent of stale beer and cherry smoke hanging in the air. karina and her friends were scattered around, some laughing over a lazy pool game, others leaned against the bar counter scrolling through their phones or sharing a smoke out back.

you sat side by side with eunseok at the bar. your drink—whiskey sat in your hand, neglected as condensation slid down the glass and left a ring on the marble counter.

"i'm sorry about… what happened," eunseok said softly, his voice just enough to sound sincere, not pitying.

you let out a short, dry chuckle, swirling the ice with a clink. "that's nothing. let's just not talk about it."

he nodded quickly, shifting in his seat. "right. my bad," he said with a sheepish chuckle, slapping his palms gently on his jeans. you mirrored the gesture unconsciously, the fabric of your turtleneck brushing against his arm as you adjusted your posture.

there was a small pause. then eunseok sighed, leaning his elbow on the counter. he rested the side of his face against his fist and turned to look at you, eyes scanning your face for a second.

"you've changed."

you rolled your eyes, smiling. "tell me about it."

"no, really." he shook his head slightly, hair falling over his forehead. "you look like an adult now."

that made you laugh lightly, real and unguarded as you threw your head back. "well, maybe because i am an adult?"

eunseok smirked. "yeah, but like... the kind of adult who looks like they've been through stuff. the life-is-hard-and-i-pay-my-own-bills kind."

you snorted, eyes narrowing as you took another sip of your drink. the alcohol burned a little less with the ice watering it down. "is that an insult or a compliment?"

"i'm actually insulting you," he deadpanned with a playful glint in his eyes.

"wow. that's life-changing," you replied, laughing again as his smile widened.

behind you, karina paused mid-shot at the pool table, her eyes flicking toward the two of you. she didn’t say anything right away, but you could already feel it—her smirk, her teasing whispers to the others that would eventually find their way to you later.

she'd been picking up on it for weeks. the slight changes. the way you and eunseok gravitated toward each other in the room. how your conversations stretched longer. how your laughter around him became less polite, and more genuine.

and if you were being fully honest with yourself, you liked it. you liked how he made you remember the tenderness you once lived.

he was kind, but not overly so. emotionally aware without making it a performance. he carried himself carefully, spoke like he meant every word, and somehow always made space for yours. he's balanced and well-kept. and, something you hated to admit—he was everything wonbin wasn't.

even if the shade of eunseok's blonde hair that resembled wonbin's sometimes knocked the air from your lungs. you never said it aloud. not to him nor to anyone. because the difference between the two of them wasn't in the hair. it was in the way eunseok listened. in how he didn't make you feel like a beautiful thing meant to be admired and then left behind. in how he answered. and how he eventually dyed his hair to black, probably noticing how your face would turn cold whenever he'd catch you looking at his head. and his reason when you asked was "my roots were growing."

considerate, and attentive.

━━━

sitting on your sofa, one foot up on the cushion, your loose pajama pants hanging past your heel, you clutch a can of beer so tightly that the metal bends slightly under your grip. the television flickers in front of you, playing some movie you picked at random. but right now, it’s just moving images and background noise. your mind is travelling somewhere, yet still vaguely aware of the plot happening on the screen.

the rain outside was relentless, drumming against the windows like tiny angry fists, the wind howling through the cracks of the apartment, but it only made the silence feel heavier. you could feel the chill of the air creeping into your bones, the isolation seeping in with it.

It had been a while since you'd felt this kind of loneliness. back then, you'd reach for your phone, dial wonbin's number, and no matter the time or the weather, he'd be here. he'd come running, arms open wide, ready to pull you close and wrap you in warmth. but that was a long time ago. the version of him you'd known and loved was long gone.

you thought briefly about calling karina, maybe asking her to swing by, but then you stopped yourself. it was midnight, and she was probably already asleep, or out with her own crowd. she was always somewhere, doing something. and the rain outside didn't help. you weren't in the mood to feel like a burden.

you let out a heavy sigh, tossing your phone onto the couch, but the emptiness in the room still didn’t shift. you forced yourself to focus on the screen, on the movie that made little sense now, but you tried to pay attention anyway.

a few minutes passed, the rain still thrashed. you turned back to your phone, fingers tapping absentmindedly across the screen, scrolling through contacts. the name that lingered the longest was eunseok's.

the thought of reaching out to him made your stomach twist. you fought with yourself hard. you didn't want to seem needy, didn't want to be that kind of person. "it's weird for a friend to ask her male friend in the middle of the night, during a storm... just for what?" you murmured under your breath.

your mind raced with the memories of how easy it used to be to just be alone, to enjoy your own company without feeling like something was missing. but ever since you'd met wonbin, that had all changed. he'd left you with a dependency—an unbearable feeling of needing someone around, in short, you're corrupted.

and the thought of reaching out to eunseok felt like a betrayal to your own boundaries. it was stupid. it wasn't like you had any right to ask him for anything, so you discarded the idea, biting your lip in frustration, and lifted the can back to your lips.

you let the bitter fizz of the beer melt your tongue, but before you could take another sip, the doorbell rang.

your head turns toward the small hallway before your doorway. it's midnight. the rain outside is brutal, pounding against the pavement. who the hell would be here at this hour?

setting your beer down, you push yourself off the couch, the floor cold beneath your bare feet as you make your way to the door. peering through the peephole, you froze, eyes widening, as your breath catches in your throat.

you breath in. hand brushing up slowly against the cold, metal door knob. eyes down as you looked left and right. you contemplated, and panicked if you should open the door, but still, you turned it.

the door creaks open, and you're greeted by the sight of wonbin's miserable figure.

he stands there, drenched, rainwater dripping down the strands of his now long, black hair, trailing over his sharp jaw, his lips, his throat. his gray tank top clings to his skin, soaked through, outlining the toned muscles beneath. his sweatpants are just as drenched, hanging low on his hips. his arms hang limply at his sides, fists trembling. his eyes, red-rimmed, glassy, filled with something hollow—are staring right at your door.

wonbin lifts his head slightly at the sound. his gaze meets yours, and for a moment, neither of you move. neither of you breathe. you don't know if the wetness on his cheeks is from the rain or his tears. maybe both.

"what's going on?" you mutter, voice slightly broken, still taken aback by the face you haven't seen in two months.

wonbin's right foot shuffles forward. a small, almost hesitant movement, and instinctively, you step back. your fingers tighten around the doorknob. he notices and stops. then, after a pause, he fully lifts his head, his long hair draping down his face, rainwater sliding from his lips to his chin.

"sori..." his voice comes out weak, trembling. "i miss you."

his lips twitch, "so fucking much..." and you watch as his eyes visibly well up again. this time, you know for sure that it's not just the rain.

and, everything comes crashing back down on you. all the feelings you thought were gone, faded, forgotten—they all come flooding back in one suffocating wave.

you want to tell him you miss him too. that you've ached for him. that your nights and mornings have felt like endless voids without him. that no matter how much peace you've gained, it never replaced the way he made you feel.

but you know better. you know this is a terrible mistake. so despite the temptation, the pull of him, you stand your ground.

"you shouldn't be here," your voice is firm but it faltered. you avoid his eyes. "go home."

and without a second of hesitation, you move to shut the door.

but just as the wood is about to meet the frame, wonbin presses his hand against it.

you jolted. his palm is flat against the surface, veins and tendons straining under his hand. his eyes, burning with something so intense—stay locked on yours. his swollen lips part slightly.

and instead of fighting back, you stupidly hesitated. you knew you'd curse yourself in the morning, but it's like every rational cells in your body had long left, and you've lost your ability to think critically. so, your grip on the doorknob loosens, and wonbin sees it.

in one swift motion, he pushes the door open aggressively, closing the gap between you. wonbin reached for your neck as your back hits the wall. then, slamming the door shut behind you.

the cold rain that glossed on his lips sent goosebumps all over you. its chill immediately cooling the heat of your kiss. the droplets falling from his nose traced paths down your cheek, mingling with the warmth of your tears, which slipped through your closed eyelids like fragile glass shards.

his kiss was burning, as if it held every ounce of regret, need, hunger. there was desperation to it, urgent and wild. each time your teeth clashed, each time his tongue slid deeper into your mouth, you cried��not just tears, but something deeper and raw. it felt like drowning. you had fought so hard for two months to move forward, to bury the memories, to pretend you were better off without him. but none of it mattered now. the moment he appeared at your door, drenched in rain, everything you had fought for went down in shambles.

you clung to his damp shirt, the fabric slipping between your fingers as your hands shook. his right hand left your neck, trailing down your spine in slow motions. his touch was gentle, like he knew every inch of your body, every curve, every sensitive place. he guided you effortlessly, pushing you backwards through the room, making his way toward your bed. his lips never leaving yours.

his touch was ice-cold against your skin, but it left a burning trail in its wake, as if he was reminding you that he could still make you feel something, even after everything. you felt his hands travel down to your waist, and your body instinctively responded, arching toward him.

"he smells of alcohol," you thought. he smelled the same. that familiar, musky scent of whiskey and cigarettes.

as his hands lifted his damp shirt from his torso, leaving his skin exposed to the night air, your heart hammered harder in your chest. but he's not the same. he wasn't the man you had once known.

he was alcohol now. you could taste it on his lips, on the tip of your tongue. every taste of him pulled you back, drowning in memories of how sweet and caring he was. how he used to hold you when the world felt too heavy. but with each clash of your teeth, each fierce, desperate kiss that almost made your lips bleed, you were reminded of how painful it was to love him despite the good times.

his hands, cold as ice, cupped your cheeks, and it felt like they were burning and freezing all at once. your skin prickled contrast to the warmth flooding your body. you felt the chill of his touch crawl down your neck, tracing down to your soft, fragile arms, then sliding lower, to your waist, tugging at the hem of your shirt. his touch was possessive now, as though reminding you that even if you had moved on, even if you had tried to let him go, he still had a hold on you.

he shouldn't be here. he had no right to come back, not after everything. and yet, your body betrayed you. you let him push you back onto the bed, his weight settling above you as his lips found yours again, more frantic, more desperate than before. you could feel the wetness of his clothes pressing against the sheets, the rainwater seeping into the fabric, staining your once-perfect bed. but none of it mattered.

you couldn't keep track of how many minutes had passed—if it had been ten, thirty, or even a full hour. time had dissolved, like you were suspended in a void where nothing existed except you and wonbin. you were bare beneath him, all skin, shivering from the cold, yet burning. his skin, damp and chilled from the rain, pressed against yours.

his lips traced your shoulders, your arms, the inside of your palms, your stomach, your thighs. each kiss felt like a contradiction—both searing and icy, tender and rough. they pressed into you like balm, as if he was kissing each part of you he had once left bruised. it was like running cold water over a burn. painful at first—but relieving in a way that still stings.

at some point, everything blurred. you didn't know when or how it ended. you didn't know if there were more kisses, more words, or just the quiet collapse of two bodies seeking comfort in the only way they knew how. all you remembered was how your skin felt against his, like puzzle pieces briefly falling back into place before breaking apart again.

when morning came, it felt surreal. you woke to silence. no sound of breathing beside you, no trace of warmth, only the weight of the blanket covering your bare skin. you blinked up at the ceiling, still hazy, questioning whether it had really happened or if your loneliness had finally crafted a dream so vivid it tricked your body into undressing itself in your sleep. but when you turned your head, you the faint depression on the mattress beside you, still slightly damp.

wonbin had been there. his warmth hadn't been a dream. he had returned, if only for a night. that realization should have made you smile, should have filled some hollow part of you. but instead, it made you feel worse.

you swallowed the lump forming in your throat, willing your eyes not to spill over. you sat up slowly, clutching the blanket to your chest. your palms pressed into the cold, damp sheets where he laid. then you let your fingers trace your own arms, remembering the trail of his fingertips, the way they burned into your skin. but no matter how much you tried, you couldn't recreate it. nothing could. you weren't made like him—jagged, sharp, dangerous. you were soft. and soft never left scars the way he did.

you sighed before slipping off the bed. then, you dragged yourself to the shower, letting the water rinse the dirt off your body. you dressed in a new sweater and pants.

you stripped the sheets from your bed, standing there for a moment, unsure. should i wash them? should i keep them? or just throw them away? still, you kept them. tossed it into the spinner, pouring in more fabric softener than necessary, desperate to drown out the smell of his perfume and alcohol. but even as the machine spun behind you, you knew nothing could really wash him away.

━━━

you went straight to karina's apartment. it was still early but your feet brought you there before your mind could stop you. you figured she'd either still be asleep or just barely stirring from slumber. and when you entered, keying in the passcode she'd long since entrusted you with, it turned out to be somewhere in between.

the blackout curtains swallowed every sunlight, cloaking the room in a faux evening. her studio apartment mirrored yours in layout, but the feeling was different. neon signs blinked against the walls, casting hues of violet, blue, and warm pink across the space. led strips ran under shelves and along the ceiling.

she lay sprawled on her sofa bed. limbs dangling off the edge, hair a mess over her pillow. you placed your bag gently on the couch, tiptoeing through the room before pulling out your phone to order breakfast takeout.

karina stirred a few moments later, groaning as she stretched, her back arching and her arms reaching up before slouching. she rubbed her eyes with the backs of her hands, bleary and disoriented.

"good morning," you chuckled, rising from the couch and heading toward the light switches but not the curtains. you'd learned your lesson. the first time you visited and dared to open those blackout drapes, she'd scolded you like you'd committed a crime.

"the hell, you're so early today," she muttered, squinting at her phone screen. "seven? god."

you stood by the counter, fingers instinctively moving to prepare two cups of coffee.

you debated whether to tell her about what happened.

"i…" the word slipped out of your mouth before you could stop it. just one syllable, but it felt like you're already revealing too much.

karina looked up from where she was slouched, her gaze clearer now. she waited.

you didn't want to ruin the months she'd spent helping you patch yourself back together. you didn't want to invalidate the nights she spent holding you, or the mornings she coaxed you into eating when all you wanted to do was disappear. but lying to her felt worse. hiding the truth would rot inside you until it spilled out some other way.

you wished quietly and desperately for some kind of sign to tell you what to do. but none came.

the silence stretched longer. karina looking at you anticipatedly. you took a breath, deeper this time, your fingers tightening around the coffee mug.

"i… it's w—"

the doorbell rang cutting you off.

karina then blinked at you, the topic drifting away. "you expecting someone?"

you shook your head, seemed to forgot that you just ordered a breakfast. the doorbell rang again, this time more persistently.

you blinked, thinking until you finally remember the takeout.

"oh," you flinched, setting the coffee aside and brushing past the kitchen island. "i forgot i ordered food."

you opened the door and thanked the delivery guy with a tight smile. the plastic bag was warm against your palm, the aroma of rice, fried eggs, and meat wafted through the air as you set it down.

karina sat up fully by the time you returned, legs crossed on the sofa bed, hair tousled, a blanket pooling at her waist. she looked less groggy now. she didn't push as you unpacked the food on her low coffee table, setting the utensils and containers down.

you handed her the cup of coffee you brewed, and she took it with a grateful hum.

the two of you sat down in silence, knees brushing slightly beneath the table. you took a bite, chewing quietly.

karina's eyes stayed on you as she sipped her coffee, finally setting it down after a moment. "so…" she began, her voice soft but probing. "what were you gonna say earlier?"

your grip on the spoon loosened a little. you didn't look up, scared your eyes would give out.

you knew she wouldn't forget. karina wasn’t the type to let things slip easily, especially when it came to you. especially when it sounded like something important.

you forced a small, tired smile and shook your head. "it's nothing," you muttered, focusing on the rice instead. "i forgot."

karina didn't say anything at first. she simply looked at you for a while longer, as if waiting for your mask to slip, for the words you swallowed to surface on their own.

but when you held still, she nodded faintly, though her eyes gave out the worry that hid beneath her calm exterior.

"alright," she said eventually, turning back to her food. "let me know if it turns into something."

you offered a nod in return.

the conversation then shifted to lighter things. the new girl at work who wore mismatched socks. the overpriced lipstick karina bought during a late-night impulse scroll. you laughed with her. but inside, you still felt sick.

━━━

you were too lost in your thoughts to focus on work, so you sent a quick message to your manager, saying you were sick. then, you spent the entire morning at karina's place, hoping that being around her would shield you from the crushing weight of loneliness and the spiraling thoughts that had only intensified after last night. karina was more than happy to have you around, and when she headed to the bar for her afternoon shift, you followed her like a lost puppy.

as you entered the bar, the low hum of quiet chatter from early customers and the soft clinking of glasses instantly made you feel light. karina waved as she headed toward the staff room to change into her work clothes, leaving you alone at the counter. you took a deep breath and tried to distract yourself, but before you could settle into your thoughts, you heard the sound of eunseok's voice.

"you're too early today," he smiled, looking up from behind the counter as you approached.

you shrugged with a tired grin. "i don't feel like working today," you said, sitting on one of the tall stools. you propped your chin on your palm, gazing out at the shiny surface of the bar, the coolness of the marble beneath your fingers grounding you as eunseok started to mix a drink behind the counter.

"hm..." he hummed, eyeing you with curiosity as he worked. "that's new. did something happen?"

you paused, fiddling with the rim of the glass in front of you. for a moment, your mind raced. the last thing you wanted was to unload your emotions onto him, especially after everything that had happened. you bit your lip, debating for a moment, before settling on the safest answer. "no, just... i feel unwell, that's all."

eunseok raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. he paused, looking at you from behind the counter, his expression softening with a hint of concern. "hm, sure…" he murmured, though the skepticism in his voice didn't go unnoticed.

he slid a tall glass of lemonade in front of you. "here, have this. it's still a little early for liquor," he said, his usual friendly grin making an appearance. "and... sori?" he added, his voice trailing off as he turned his back to face the liquor shelf.

you took the glass, looking up as he called your name. eunseok's back was to you. you took a sip of the lemonade, before humming in response.

"don't be afraid to tell me if there's something bugging you," he said softly, his voice lowering just enough for you to catch it.

your eyes softened, locking eyes with him for a moment. you then gave a small nod, lips slightly pursed, your gaze drifting away as you fought to keep your thoughts from slipping out. "i won't."

eunseok smiled in understanding before he turned back to the liquor shelf. "i'll tidy up here, just finish that and i'll keep you company. it's pretty quiet right now, so no rush."

you smirked, your lips curling into a teasing grin as you twirled the glass in your hands. "okay, but be quick. or i might just dissolve into a puddle here."

eunseok chuckled softly. "i'll be fast, don't worry," he assured, making his way to the back to gather some cleaning supplies.

you sat there, elbow on the counter, cheek pressed to your palm, mind running again. the lemonade was almost gone, only ice and a few tart drops left at the bottom. you twirled the straw lazily, sneaking a glance at your phone. blank screen. no messages. of course. you had cut off all the ways for wonbin to reach you—deleted your old accounts, changed your number, what'd you expect? but some part of you still expected him to somehow appear again after what just happened.

you scoffed at yourself under your breath and took the last gulp of lemonade.

"you always drink like you're trying to win against the glass," eunseok teased lightly, returning to your side with a damp towel in one hand and a fresh glass of water in the other. he placed the water in front of you.

you lifted your eyes and smiled, a little lopsided. "well, i don't like losing."

"i can tell." he chuckled, folding the towel neatly and tucking it under the counter. then he leaned on the bar next to you, keeping a respectful distance—but not too far.

eunseok turned slightly to face you, arms folded as he leaned back against the counter. "i'm glad you came today," he said casually, like he was just stating a fact. "i mean, you always do but... just relieved to see you."

"me too," you murmured, without thinking. and you meant it. you didn't expect to spend the day here, didn't expect to be saved from the weight of last night so easily. but eunseok did that without even trying.

you looked at him, how he kept his gaze level, how his smile was warm but never assuming, how he never tried to pry too much or touch too long. he was just present in a way people rarely were. gentle and respectful.

"do you always do this?" you asked, sipping the water. "look after people when they don't ask?"

he looked down with a soft exhale, the corner of his mouth twitching into a modest smile. "not always. just when it seems like they need it." he glanced at you, eyes flickering with quiet sincerity. "i've had bad days too. i know what it's like when someone just sits beside you, without asking for anything."

you nodded slowly, brushing your thumb along the rim of the glass. "thanks, eunseok."

"don't mention it."

and you didn't, not for the rest of the afternoon. instead, you stayed. you talked a little. laughed a bit. he showed you how to tell if someone ordered a drink just to look cool or if they actually liked it. you helped him carry empty trays back from a table. at one point, he handed you a warm croissant he'd saved from earlier, like it was the most normal thing in the world, and didn't even blink when you muttered a quiet thanks through your first bite.

you weren't healed. the thoughts still crept in from time to time. images of last night, wonbin's cold skin, flashes of his eyes twinkling against the dim night. but they didn't linger long. not with eunseok with you, with his presence, with his way of showing care without making a show of it.

eventually, the bar's usual crowd began to roll in and karina reappeared behind you with a smirk when she saw the two of you.

"you staying for dinner or are you gonna make him walk you home?" she teased, winking.

you groaned and threw a napkin at her. but eunseok only smiled sheepishly.

━━━

he eventually drove you home, but along the way, he made a turn without a word. the car steered off an unfamiliar route. you glanced at him with a questioning look, brows slightly raised, but didn't say anything. still, eunseok spoke as if he'd expected your reaction.

"come on, have dinner before going home," he said, eyes fixed on the road ahead, one hand resting casually on the wheel.

"why didn't you tell me at the bar?" you asked, shifting in your seat slightly to face him.

"i know you'll refuse, so..." he replied with a smirk, glancing sideways at you just long enough to catch your playful eye-roll.

you shook your head with a soft chuckle, the tension from earlier melting off your shoulders like mist. "you really are something."

soon, he pulled up in front of a small, tucked-away noodle shop, its warm exterior made of darkened wooden planks and a slightly slanted roof. a string of warm lanterns hung under the eaves casting soft shadows on the sidewalk and giving the place a cozy, almost nostalgic vibe.

you both stepped out of the car, the jingle of the shop's wind chime greeting you as you approached. the noren curtain swayed slightly as you walked past it together.

inside, the shop was dimly lit but welcoming, the interior bathed in the warm hues of overhead bulbs and the steam from the open kitchen. the air smelled of simmering broth, soy sauce, and freshly cut scallions. the long wooden counter stretched across the room, varnished and lined with high stools. cooks busy behind it, the clatter of pots and chopping of vegetables blending with the murmur of conversation from the few customers scattered throughout the space.

as you and eunseok took a seat side by side at the front of the counter, one of the older cooks gave a small bow and a cheerful "welcome in!"

"this place's been here forever," eunseok said as he rested his forearms on the counter. "i used to come here with my dad when i was a kid. the taste hasn't changed."

you looked around, nodding with a smile. "it does feel like that. like somewhere you go when you want to feel warm again."

"exactly," he replied. "the owner says food tastes better when your heart's at ease."

you gave a small smirk. "that's cute, and cheesy."

"it's true, though," he chuckled. "just wait until you try the udon. you'll feel like crying, but in a good way."

you laughed lightly, but it didn't last as your eyes drifted to the right—an instinct more than a choice. and then everything in you stilled.

four seats away sat a familiar figure. the back of his head, the slope of his shoulders, even the way his fingers tapped the counter—it was wonbin.

your body stiffened instantly. your knuckles turned white as your hand curled into a tight fist against the wooden counter. your breath caught in your throat as your eyes met his.

he had that look again—piercing, unreadable, like he was holding something back behind his thoughts. but he didn't say a word. his dark eyes flicked from you, then to eunseok sitting beside you.

the man next to you, completely unaware, was still chatting with the cook behind the counter. "do you want barley tea, or—" he paused, noticing your silence, he turned to you with a small frown.

"hey?" he called softly, his brows furrowing.

then he followed your gaze. his eyes landed on wonbin.

eunseok's entire demeanor shifted in a blink. the boundary he'd settle between you melted, replaced with a relaxed confidence. he leaned back slightly, one arm stretching out behind you—then gently draped it over your shoulders. his fingertips gently grazed your upper arm.

you blinked in surprise, instinctively looking up at him. his face was close now.

"hey," he said lightly, his voice pulling you momentarily out of the tesnion inside your chest.

the expression he wore, it wasn't one you'd seen from him before. it wasn’t exactly flirtatious, but it wasn’t just friendly either. it confused you, especially now that your senses were heightened. you could still feel the weight of wonbin's gaze pressing into side even though you refused to turn again.

eunseok followed the direction of your stiff posture, his eyes flicking over your shoulder—past you—and then back to you. you noticed how his jaw tightened before he smiled again.

"i'm asking if you want barley tea or just a regular iced tea. choose," he murmured, his tone is oddly diffefent. the weight of his arm didn’t change, staying there like a blanket. you were tense, shoulders slightly hunched under his touch.

"barley..." you muttered under your breath, barely audible as your gaze dropped to your leg, where your knee bounced under the counter.

"barley it is," he said with a smile, turning toward the staff behind the counter to place your order. but even as he spoke, his arm didn’t move, still resting comfortably on your shoulders.

then, in the corner of your eye, you turned your head slightly just enough to catch the movement by the entrance.

the noren curtain by the doorway swung violently on its rod, the fabric flapping like it had been shoved aside too hard. the faint jingling of the wind chime had stopped. the seat where wonbin sat was now empty.

you could feel eunseok's arm loosen off you now, the warmth fading as he leaned in again, with barrier now.

"you okay?" his voice lowered.

you gave a faint nod, hardly more than a tilt of your head. "i am."

his brows furrowed slightly, not quite convinced. "do you... wanna go home?" he asked again, this time more carefully, as though giving you an easy out if you needed it.

you lifted your face and flashed a quick smile. "no, let's eat, then i'll go home."

your lips trembled at the corners. you could only hope eunseok didn't notice the way your smile twitched.

what you really wanted was for wonbin to say something. anything.

to stand up and ask you to talk outside. ask what the hell happened last night. explain what he was thinking. apologize for ruining the progress you'd climbed your way through for months. for breaking the silence you worked so hard to keep.

but instead, all he left behind was heaviness, and the uncomfortable feeling that followed him out the door, lingering in the noodle shop like a fog.

"i hope i could make you feel better today, sori," eunseok blinked at you, his voice quiet as the two of you stood beneath the orange kight of the streetlamp outside your apartment building.

after dinner, instead of heading straight home, eunseok had pulled you toward a small arcade just across the street—four buildings away from the restaurant you worked in. the neon lights flickered dimly above the entrance. it was nearly 8 p.m., and the staff was already prepping to close for the night. but eunseok pleaded with them to let you two stay just a little longer. ten minutes, he said. he even paid extra, which led to a heated back-and-forth between the two of you right there in front of the change machine.

you had insisted it was unnecessary, almost embarrassed. but he was relentless—persistently charming in a way that was impossible to fight against without eventually smiling.

and despite your earlier resistance, those ten minutes felt longer than they actually were. the way he grinned while playing that old rhythm game, how his shoulders bumped into yours during the racing match, and the way he kept making dumb little jokes when he lost—it all somehow made you forget about wonbin. at least for a while. like he'd been shoved into a locked drawer at the very back of your mind.

now, standing in front of your apartment, the night feeling a little too quiet again, eunseok adjusted the strap of his bag, getting ready to leave.

"yes, i did," you said, your voice soft, and tilted your head slightly as you smiled at him. "thank you so much."

"it's fine," he said instantly, eyes crinkling slightly as he returned your smile. "i like seeing you happy. even though it’s not as radiant as before… at least i managed to make you feel light."

the air between you was still again. you nodded, breathing out slowly through your nose, lips pressed together to keep from spilling another thank you. words wouldn’t do it justice anyway.

"be careful down the road," you told him.

"i will." he nodded with a calm smile, lifting a hand in a small wave before turning toward the sidewalk. you watched until he disappeared around the corner.

━━━

the moment you stepped foot into your apartment, your eyes immediately landed on your bed—as if it had transformed into a screen playing the last night memory of you and wonbin, tangled in sheets, limbs intertwined in a heat that now made your skin crawl. you grimaced on instinct, your face scrunching in disgust.

you shook your head like it would wipe the memory clean. a whine escaped your lips as you flung your bag onto the couch without care, its strap catching on the edge but you didn’t bother fixing it. you trudged across the room and collapsed face-first onto the bed, the sheets soft but somehow feeling like they were made of cold stone.

"that won’t happen again," you hissed under your breath, pushing yourself up. "he’s out of his fucking mind."

you scrambled to your feet and rushed to the bathroom, flipping the light on with a harsh clack. you were ready to peel off every layer of today, scrub yourself clean and start over.

it felt like a fresh night. warm hoodie over your skin, clean sheets on your bed, hair damp and wrapped in a towel. despite wonbin’s sudden crash back into your life, remembering the day with eunseok made you smile.

as you rubbed your towel into your hair, your phone buzzed on the nightstand. you grabbed it quickly, seeing karina’s name flash on the screen. you answered with a hum.

"you home?" her voice cracked on the other end.

"yeah, long day," you replied, rubbing your forehead with the towel as you leaned your neck back against the headboard, careful not to bump into the neatly arranged little trinkets you kept there.

"wow, you didn’t even tell me you left already. i thought you and eunseok just went out to eat something." her tone turned pouty. you could almost see her rolling her eyes dramatically.

you let out a breathy laugh. "sorry. i should’ve messaged while we were heading out. but… something happened. bad luck."

"what?" she gasped softly. "eunseok finally confessing he likes you?"

"i wouldn’t call that a bad luck," you shot back, smiling for a moment. but it faded as you added, "anyways, it was… wonbin."

"wonbin?" her voice pitched up. "god, i almost forgot about his existence. what about him?"

"we kinda…" you paused, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. "ran into him at the diner."

"you guys what??” karina audibly gasped.

"yeah, but we didn’t interact. like, it’s just th—" you were abruptly cut off by the sound of your doorbell.

"i—i’ll call you back," you said quickly, hanging up without waiting for her reply.

your chest tightened as you stood up on the bed, bare feet pressing into the soft mattress. the sound of the doorbell still echoed in your ears.

after what happened last night, the last thing you wanted was another uninvited doorbells.

you glared toward the door, body tense, heartbeat clawing up your throat. you didn’t dare look through the peephole. you didn’t want to confirm it. you just stepped forward cautiously, keeping your distance, calling out instead.

"who is it?" you called out, trying to steady your voice, but it came out slightly shaky.

the hallway outside your door was void of sound. no response. not even footsteps.

that silence tightened the pit in your stomach. not because you feared a stranger or some burglar—but because your gut twisted at the thought that it might be him again.

then, another ring.

you stood there for a moment, breath held hostage by anxiety. and then, despite every ounce of logic, despite every internal scream telling you not to—you stepped forward. zero survival instincts.

you twisted the doorknob open—and as expected. wonbin.

it felt like déjà vu. same half-lidded eyes, same parted lips, like he was about to say something but forgot how. the only difference now was the weather. no rain soaked his clothes tonight, he wore the same outfit from earlier at the noodle shop—dark jacket, wrinkled shirt, jeans slightly scuffed at the knees. you never noticed how wonbin's hair looked like now. dyed black, longer. his face was flushed, cheeks pink from alcohol. and he reeked of soju, the bitter scent spilling into the hallway.

you sighed, deep and sharp. your nose flared, and you could feel heat crawl up your neck—rage, disappointment, something in between. your hand curled into a tight fist, gripping the fabric of your pajamas so hard your knuckles turned white. teeth gritted, jaw clenched.

"do you not have your own place?" you snapped, but your voice came out too soft than you intended.

wonbin stared for a second, his lashes low, and then slowly dropped his gaze to the floor. his voice barely came out.

"i… i’m sorry."

you let out a dry, sarcastic laugh, your mouth curling bitterly. without thinking, you yanked the door wide open. the knob slammed into the wall behind it with a dull thud.

"sorry?" you repeated, your brows furrowing, lips trembling with restrained fury. "wonbin—" you pointed at the floor "you crashed in here last night. you didn’t just crash into my apartment, you crashed back into my life!"

he flinched. his face folding into guilt. but you weren’t done.

"i don’t even know if you remember what you did." your voice cracked. "do you remember?!"

wonbin looked up again, slow and hesitant. his right foot shifted forward, testing the air between you, like he was expecting you to flinch or back away. but you didn’t. you stood your ground, the anger anchoring you.

then, without a word, he moved.

his arms wrapped around you—warm and heavy. his chest pressed against yours. you could smell mint on his breath beneath the sting of alcohol, feel the heat of his skin, hear the slight hitch in his breathing near your ear.

and despite everything, your body didn’t fight him off.

you didn’t hug back either. you just stood there—arms stiff, unmoving, refusing to give in. the last strand of reason in your head held you still, kept you grounded while your heart beat like it wanted to escape your body.

"are you… mad at me?" he whispered against your ear.

a dozen thoughts slammed into your brain at once.

i’m always mad at you. you ruined everything. i tried to fix myself—tried so hard—and here you are again like none of it mattered. you make me feel small. you make me feel weak. i never wanted to see you again.

but all that came out was a single word.

"yes."

wonbin pulled away from the hug, his hands resting gently on your arms. it was so tender—nothing like the grip he used to have when he was angry. similar to the force he used when he pretended to care. the kind of tenderness he only showed when he felt like caring. when he wanted to mean it. and you hated that you still longed for it.

he leaned in slowly, his breath warm against your lips, then drawing close with a tenderness that felt too calm to be real. gentler than the kiss from last night, but still laced with desperation. you didn’t move. your hands remained clenched in your pajama fabric, your chest rising and falling too fast. tears sat on your lash line, daring to fall.

without saying a word, wonbin bent down slightly, his arm slipping under your leg as he lifted you up. you were light in his arms, weightless even, like this was something he’s done a thousand times. he sat on the edge of the bed, pulling you onto his lap, you straddled him and your knees pressing into the mattress, your chest so close to his. and suddenly, like a slap to the face, you remembered—two months ago, this exact position is him with someone else. a woman whose name you never knew.

your stomach dropped. you pushed yourself off his shoulders, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as you turned your face away. you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, disgusted—not just at him, but at yourself.

"what's your problem?" you muttered, voice trembling and low.

wonbin stared, gaze soft, intense, unreadable. always unreadable. and as always—he didn’t answer. he never did. he left things open-ended. just enough mystery so he could always come back. because there was never a clear answer with him. just silence.

"i miss you," he said quietly.

you laughed under your breath, bitter and aching. "you miss me? that's it? you saw me earlier you just stormed off like i was nothing!"

wonbin looks down "it hurts… sori,"

you scoffed. "and for me, it doesn’t?"

"i need you," he said again, like it was the only truth he knew how to speak.

that was the thing about wonbin. he never answered your questions. he only told you what he felt. what he wanted. and every time, you asked anyway— even when you knew you’d get nothing back.

your mouth opened but nothing came out at first. tears finally escaped, sliding down your cheeks. you looked down, overwhelmed by how absurd all this is—arguing with him while still sitting on his lap. it was pathetic. you were pathetic.

his palms cupped your cheeks again, his thumbs wiping away your tears, so careful like he had the right to. you looked up at him with all the vulnerability you tried so hard to hide. and in that moment, it didn’t matter that you knew better.

"i need you too," you whispered.

the thread you’d tried so hard to cut tied itself back together. whatever unfinished thing you had with him earlier, ruined by the nightmare of your past—was now burning again like a lit match to old paper.

wonbin leaned in again, kissing you posessively this time. you could still taste the alcohol, but it didn’t make you pull away. his hands wandered across your body, fingers drawing invisible lines down your sides. his lips moved with care, with longing, and you wished—god, you wished—it didn’t feel so good.

even now, you knew this was temporary.

he stood up, gently lowering you back onto the bed. it was the exact same spot you’d been in last night. but now—no harsh teeth, no cold raindrops dripping from his hair onto your skin. his knees anchored between your leg, one hand tugging at the hem of your hoodie, slowly peeling it off.

you savored every pleasure, even as a flicker of eunseok’s face crept into your thoughts, faint and ghostly. but that was a thought for another day you knew you had to deal with some time.

because tonight, you just let it happen again. because you knew when morning came, you’d wake up to nothing but a cold, empty bed and the presence of him left behind.

[nolita-fairytale]

don't want to walk alone | carmen 'carmy' berzatto x fem!reader | epilogue: november

summary: sugar has her baby marking the beginning of a new chapter for the berzatto family.

warnings: husband!carmy who comes with a warning label of his own, swearing, lots of tooth rotting fluff, marriage, no use of y/n, second person pov, she/her pronouns, the end

wc: 1300

listen to: 'lean on me' -- bill withers & 'chinatown' -- bleachers (because it's so make my heart surrender au coded) on the official don't want to walk alone playlist

a/n: well, folks! this gets us from here to the carmy as your baby daddy au. BUT i think it's time for me to let these two ride off into the sunset and go on their merry way. i have loved this story, these characters, this world since it filled my brain with a story that begged to be told, and forced me to write it because i couldn't stop thinking about it. i wrote something quite sappy in the a/n a few chapters ago, so i'll spare us an encore performance of it and just say this: thank you for reading. thank you for being a part of this story. thank you for being a part of their journey. i will pop into this world and perhaps maybe write oneshots from time to time, but... it's time, my loves. :) would anyone be interested in a behind the scenes look at this world like i did with 'burn your life down?' let me know!

part five | masterlist

November

After sixteen long hours, Sugar’s baby comes: a perfect, rosy-cheeked, healthy baby boy that sends you and Carmy rushing to the hospital. Sugar hadn’t wanted you to come till she was ready to push, and by the time you got the text from Pete, you’d sped to the restaurant, ready to drag Carmy out of there, regardless of how busy it had been. 

Besides, everyone knew what was going on – on the edges of their seats, phones at the ready to hear any and all news about the new member of the family, and more than happy to support so that you and Carmy could show up for Sugar. 

“Carm?” Sugar asks for her brother, as you and Pete hug it out in the waiting room. You can’t even tell that the man’s been up all night; the excitement and joy in his eyes overshadowing any and all fatigue. 

Carmy excuses himself from you and Pete’s congratulatory embrace, making his way into the hospital room where his sister lays, propped up on her bed, baby in arms. 

So much has changed for the both of them: his sister, now a mother, and he, an uncle. Carmy takes cautious steps forward, the reality of it all beginning to hit him. 

“Hi,” she smiles, in complete awe of her new baby. 

“Woah,” Carmy says, though completely incapable of hiding the smile that begins to form over his face. “You made that.”

“I made that,” she chuckles with an eye roll, glancing from the baby, to her brother, then back to her son. “And he’s the most perfect thing in the world. Baby boy, I want you to meet someone. I want you to meet your uncle.” 

Carmy carefully sits in the chair right next to the bed, turning his attention to the baby. 

“Can you say hi to your Uncle Carmy?” Nat coos, shifting so that she can properly introduce her son and Carmy. 

“Oh my goodness… look at you,” Carmy says, his eyes full of wonder as the sleeping baby shifts in Sugar’s arms. 

He’s not sure what to say, the words caught in his throat. He can feel it – that this is something momentous – but it’s as if he doesn’t know where to begin, lost in the magnitude of what’s happening right now. 

“Hey, little guy,” Carmy finally manages to get out, his voice stuck in his throat. 

Sugar chuckles again, letting out an exasperated sigh. 

“How ya doin?” Carmy asks, looking over at his sister this time. 

“Great. Just great,” she replies dryly, earning a laugh from Carmy, because it really has been one hell of a night. 

When she opens her mouth to answer this time, her words come out much more genuine and soft as she adds, “I am though. Really. I’m great.”

Carmy nods in understanding, his eyes searching his sister’s face for any more of a reaction. But he knows that this is a dream come true for her -- that being a mother had always been the plan. Carmy chooses to focus this time on the sleeping baby, who’s tucked his head into her chest, seeking out warmth and comfort in this strange, new world. 

“Bear?” Nat asks, as Carmy lifts his head to look at her once more. 

There’s something urgent in her voice that grabs his attention and he’s not sure what she’s going to say next. 

“Yeah?” he asks back, his eyes wide. 

“So I want to talk to you about something,” Sugar says, his voice softening even more as she looks down at her baby boy. Carmy nods once, letting her know that he’s ready as Nat continues. “I uh… well, Pete and I have been thinking a lot about this. And… I wanted to talk to you about it before we move forward with it.”

Carmy swallows, leaning in this time. 

“After we found out we were having a boy, Carm, we talked a lot… about what we would name him and… with his due date being in November… I don’t know. And look at him now, meeting him... it just feels right,” she begins, emotions welling in her voice. “We-, well, we want to name him Michael. If that’s okay… with you.”

Carmy has to stop for a moment, frozen in time as he hears the name. It’s not like he gets emotional about these kinds of things very often, but then again, this is all new to him – new to the little families they’re building; a new generation of Berzattos. 

“Uh,” Carmy croaks out, his voice stuck in his throat as he realizes he’s much more moved than he expected to be. “Uh yeah, Sug. I… it’s okay with me.”

“Are you sure? Because I didn’t know if you wanted to use the name or-,” Sugar begins to explain. 

“No, it’s-, it’s okay,” Carmy is quick to interject. “If it feels right. I mean we haven’t even-, you know, we’re not talking about… yet….” 

Sugar nods in understanding, because she knows that you and Carmy have only been married for two months now. Hell, she's your best friend; she'd know if either of you were talking about having kids.

“So,” Carmy says, his eyes suddenly feeling watery. “Guess there’s a new Michael Berzatto then?”

He takes another look at his baby nephew, joy and grief both trapped inside his chest. Carmy's overwhelmed by it all: hearing his name, what this means for the Berzattos, this new beginning. He thinks back to what you said to Sugar on your wedding day -- that this could be the start of a new chapter for all of you -- the reality of your words reflected back to him now, all in one tiny package of new life.

"Welcome to the world, buddy," Carmy manages to say, his voice soft and full.

And it's as if every single thing that's led to this moment, and every single possibility that the future may hold rush before his eyes.

“Welcome to the world, baby boy,” Sugar whispers, suddenly overwhelmed with emotions.

*

Wanting to give Carmy and Nat time alone together, you spend the first part of your hospital visit with Pete in the waiting room, as the teary-eyed man recounts the intensity of the last eight hours. You can see it in his eyes, hear it in the way he speaks, that this is a dream come true for him – becoming a father. 

Soon enough, Pete is ushering you into the hospital room, more than eager to introduce you to your new nephew. By the time you and Pete join her and Carmy, the new Berzatto is fast asleep on her chest, while Carmy sits quietly next to her. There’s an energy between the siblings, something you notice right away, and you can only imagine that this is emotional for the both of them on so many levels. 

“Hi,” you grin, looking from Sugar to Carmy, as you join him by her bedside.  

“Hi, sweetie,” Sugar greets you. Carmy smiles at you, as your hand comes up to rub comforting patterns over his shoulder and back. 

“Pete,” Nat begins again. “Carmy and I were just talking… about his name.”

“Oh yeah?” Pete asks, smiling hopefully as he exchanges a look with his wife. 

She nods, a full conversation happening between the new parents with just one look. Pete lets out a heavy exhale, smiling at his wife as Nat answers with:

“Yeah."

Carmy clears his throat, his arm closest to you squeezing you closer to him, gently leaning his head against your side in search of comfort. 

“What’d you decide on?” you ask curiously, the air seemingly tense with feeling. 

“Michael,” Sugar answers, exchanging a look with her brother this time. Carmy squeezes your hip, and as you search his face for a reaction, you can tell he's holding back tears.

“His name is Michael.”

[youaremyhome]

The Antimatter of You

Warnings: Dark!Rafe Cameron x Reader, 18+ NSFW, smut, HEAVY non-con/dub-con, drug use, possessive behavior, blackmail, manipulation, DARK. More to add. Read at your own risk!

Notes: 4.4k!! I did it!!! I promise now that it’s summer (and getting fired from my job) I’ll have more time to write/update. Hope it lives up to the hype lol let a girl know ok love ya ❤️

Taglist: @belcalis9503 @ACRAZYBIOTCH374 @fangirlwithlou @malfoytargaryen @RAFECAMERONSBADUSSY @takin-care-of-business @watersquirtpewpewboomm @magnificantmermaid @mk15x @abbybarnesstuff @lavenderhue @dirtytomatoedwrites

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! (And I’m sorry if I missed you, I love you)

The scent of flowers is nauseating but with a knock on your door, Rafe ignores it as best as he can.

It’s been several days since he’s seen you, the longest he’s gone without any physical contact. His texts were met with one worded replies or none at all. Having done a stellar job of avoiding him. Taking new routes to your lectures, roommates answering the door saying you weren’t home, skipping your Ethics class, the seat glaringly empty beside him.

Rafe knew to give you some space – if only for this once. The incident with you, him and Topper had shaken you greatly, no one had ever seen such an argument between the two of you. His best friend had given him a thorough tongue-lashing that morning after your exit. A reminder from Rafe about Topper’s general creepiness towards his sister had him shutting up instantly.  

Before, Rafe had believed you were slowly - but surely - getting used to him being a fixture in your life. He wasn’t stupid enough to think you were fully submitting, of course, but he knew you would be able to get there. With time.

He’s let you have your little tantrum of silence. It was a mistake to treat you so harshly, even if you had wasted a hundred dollars worth of good product.

You’re home alone today. He’s made sure of it. Camped outside your townhome for the past two hours. All your roommates had gone out for various things, filing out one by one. The only one left was the most annoying: Daniella.  

While Louise and Andi gave knowing smirks whenever the group was together, Daniella always had a strained smile. As if she struggled to let him anywhere near you.

To ensure her absence, he had recruited the help of Carson. Telling him to lure his girlfriend out so Rafe could talk to his.

He rasps on the door again, calling out your name.

“Open the door. I know you’re home.” When there’s no response, Rafe fist hits harder. “Open the damn door.”

He repeats your name multiple times as he jingles the doorknob. After a few more tries, he sighs and gives up. It didn’t have to go this way.

The click of the door is quiet, Rafe soundlessly closing it as he pockets his copy of the key. Slyly walking through the foyer, the back of your head appears when he comes into the open living room. The crinkle of plastic as his hands squeeze the stems makes your head almost fall off from how fast you look behind.

“What in the actual hell, Rafe?” Pushing off the couch, you cross your arms. A faint line creased between your eyebrows and Rafe can’t help but notice you aren’t wearing a bra. “How’d you get in here?”

“Spare.” Rafe simply says. “Y’know, just in case of an emergency.”

“Or to sneak in here like a fucking creep.”

“No…for when my girl is ignoring me.”

Rafe lifts the bouquet up, savoring how you take in the view of your favorite flowers in white and faint pink. Taking a step toward you, a minute flinch ticks at your shoulders. Rafe stops.

“Well, you can throw them in the garbage on your way out.” Your ponytail swishes when you twirl back to plant yourself on the couch. “Go away.”

“Aw c’mon baby,” Groaning, he rolls his head back. He rounds the couch, standing in front of the TV. Extending his arm out, he presents the flowers again. “How about you find a nice vase for these, and I’ll make it up to you.”

The stupid comment grants him exactly what he wants, your attention on him. Eyes like needlepoints hoping to puncture him.

“You can do so by leaving.” You turn the volume up, and you focus back on the TV.

It’s the dismissal that has Rafe’s ire prickling his skin, his patience splintering.  

“Alright, that’s enough. I gave you plenty a time to pout.”

Your lips puff with your incredulous. “Pout? Pout?” You swat at the bouquet. “I’m not pouting. I’m fucking pissed and tired of you.”

'Pissed off' he could deal with. The pouting is cute. Your tears are an intoxicating aphrodisiac. But to be tired of him?

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

Rafe squats down, supporting his forearms on his knees as he looks up at you through his lashes. Staring at the upwards angle of your face, he doesn’t have to wait long for your eyes to nervously meet his. Containing his anger has never been his forte. You simultaneously ignite his fire to a roaring inferno and wash it down until there’s only embers left. At the moment, he was between the two.

“I’m sorry, okay?” He blows out a breath. “I, I should’ve never gotten like that with you. Forgive me, angel?”

Leaning the flowers forward, the petals tap once against your bare knees. A deadlock between wills of opposing nature. Your facial expressions switch like the flipping of pages, the language of you becoming easier to understand the more time he spends with you.

“Apology unaccepted.”

Snatching the bouquet out of his grip, you stand and beeline for the kitchen. Rafe rights himself up, following you lazily. Playing his own game of shadow with each step and turn you make. Your slamming cabinets left and right until you find one beneath the sink, almost cracking the glass of a long vase with your force.

His gaze skims over the flimsy material of your sleep shorts, and the way your breasts slope beneath your tank top. Your hands busy themselves with arranging the stems and such, actively ignoring his presence. Hands in his pockets, Rafe takes measured strides until he’s a hairs length away from your back.

“…I never got my hello kiss.”

Your glare radiates so potently that Rafe doesn’t have to look to know it's there. Placing his hands on your hips, he walks the tips of his fingers inward and smirks when a quiver to your lower belly ripples across. Lips kiss at the tension in your shoulders, thumbs molding like dough into your sides.

“I’ve missed you…” His tongue peaks out, tasting the skin there. A hand travels down to play with the waistband of your shorts. “Missed this cunt, too.”

“Rafe – wait,” The hitching of your breath is so sweet he cups you in his wide hand in a fluid downslide. The pinching pain of your nails into his wrists has him stilling, lingering. Your neck stretches as you look back as your features pinch in. “I’m…I’m on my…y’know, period.”

He wants to believe you – truly he does – but lies spill from those pretty lips all the time so…

Frustrated whimpers break loose between your bitten lip while Rafe continues down, your head leaning on his shoulder in defeat. Swirling the tip of his middle finger closer to your hole, the touch of roped cotton has him pausing. A string.

Damn it.

Rafe sighs and trails up your slit to lightly stroke your clit once more before he’s slipping his hand out, keeping it low on your warm pelvis. It rises a rumbled chuckle from him, peering down at your weak glare. This close to your face, he can see all the small imperfections that add to the mosaic of your beauty. Gliding his other hand up, he passes a ghost of a touch to your chest before it lands with a curl around your throat. The addition of it pushes you fully into perfection.

Humming and eyes hooded, Rafe draws out a peck to your lips. The warm, soft contact is barely a kiss, just a need to feel you closer that has Rafe relaxing a fraction. “C’mon then.”

Leading you back to the couch, you resume your previous seat that looks more like a nest with a bundle of blankets, a heating pad, and candy there. Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline when he lays the warmed pad on your lower abdomen, wrapping a fuzzy throw around you then tucking you under his arm, situated to lean against him. Propping his feet on the ottoman, Rafe focuses on the TV which plays some sort of reality show.

Your suspicion rises like steam, muscles strained with preparation for flight. It isn’t until halfway through the show does Rafe feel your body incrementally slacken and by the third, you’ve fallen asleep.

So, if the show happens to stay on there’s no one around to judge.

Rafe likes it when you’re asleep. Can freely stare at you without an icy sneer or bitchy remark to ruin the moment. Just a doll nuzzled deep into the side of him resonating a humming of snores.

His peace is ruined by the vibrating of his phone. He checks the screen.

Ward

With care, Rafe eases up from the couch and repositions your head so it’s against a pillow then heads into the kitchen.

Ward hardly calls him. The proportion of Rafe’s outgoing calls to him weighs heavily unanswered. Taking a deep breath, he picks up.

“Hey, Dad. What’s up?” There’s an eager edge to his question and Rafe hates it.

“Rafe, checking in to see how you doin’?” Ward’s deep timbre carries easily through the speaker.

“Good. I’m good.” Rafe looks at the back of the couch, smiling. “Yeah, I’m actually at my girl –”

“Listen, bud,” His father starts. “You got any plans for spring break? Wantcha come down so you can help me start up this new project. It’s a big one.”

Rafe pumps his fist into the air silently, excitement coloring his voice. “No, yeah, totally! I can do that. I’m up for it.”

“You sure? This is legit business and I need you to have a clear head. That means no…partying when you’re here, ‘ight? No funny stuff while we do this. Can you handle that, Rafe?”

It isn’t the serious tone of his father’s gruff voice that has his excitement evaporating. It’s the impending disappointment there like Rafe has already fucked up. Ward giving him a chance and still expecting failure in the end. A flash of hurt burns through but Rafe shakes it off, tells himself that he deserves it considering his track record.

“You can count on me, sir. I swear.”

A pause. Rafe thinks Ward might give encouraging words. A squeeze of a hand for support, words he’s heard him tell Sarah.

Only it’s: “See you soon.” And that’s that.

The dual beep from the phone lets Rafe know Ward’s hung up, just as a ‘love you’ was balancing off his tongue. He must be busy today.

“Who was that?”

Your voice rises from the couch before your head pops up, hair all fluffy and ruffled. Eyes are a bit puffy from sleep as you blink them open. The late afternoon sun creates a soft yellow hue through the windows, catching onto strands of your hair, soaking into your skin. Rafe is momentarily blinded by the view that it takes him a second to respond.  

“My dad.” Carding his fingers through his hair, Rafe smiles as the thrill returns. “He wants me to assist with a new job. This is huge for me!”

Yawning, you stretch and get up from the couch. Rafe keeps his body angled to yours, head nodding along to his babbling as you fill a glass of water.

“If he could see that I’m ready – that I’m ready to get serious, I’ll finally be a part of the Cameron legacy. My legacy. It’s about time he’s bought me into the loop…sure I’ve been tagging along since I could remember but this time, he wants my input. I’ll be able to share my ideas and he’ll have to listen.” He sighs, winded. “It’s too bad I’ll be gone for spring break –”

“Really?”

You’re at the edge of the peninsula, hip leaning against the counter as you take another sip. Your eyes shift from his to elsewhere, fingers drumming an uneven beat. Adjacent to you and with his hands braced on the counter, Rafe slides closer. Spreading his fingers apart to reach out a pinky to stroke your own.

“Don’t miss me too much.”

Scoffing, you swipe your hand away. “As if.” Your face softens a little into curiosity. “What does your dad do again?”

Shock rocks at his heart and it's damn hard to keep it in. He can count on one hand the number of times you’ve shown genuine interest in conversation with him.

“He owns a development company. Operates daily with the construction of buildings and those type of things.”

“Oh.” Your eyes are open and inviting, the slightest tilt in his direction.

Rafe steams on ahead, wanting to keep your attention. “Yeah, he started it all on his own. Born on the other side of the island. Actually made something of himself… unlike those dirty pogues down there now.”

It’s automatic to sneer out the slur. He can’t help the disgust he feels just thinking about that side of town.  

One of your eyebrows raises. “Aren’t you, like, fourth generation to attend UNC?” Your chin juts out. “Wouldn’t that mean your family has had, like enough money to go for so long?”

Rafe could crack a tooth from the grinding of his teeth. You’re not the first to connect the dots but you certainly are one of the few to vocalize it.  

“Third.” Rafe sucks his teeth in. “The Camerons may have started out on the Cut, but they grew to be more middle class. Only the truly elite are on Figure Eight.”

It infuriates him to no end of that simple fact. That just before he was born Ward was making his way through the Cut and into Figure Eight, the right side of the island. Where he – they always belonged.

Your eyes roll with a tilt of your head. “So, not really a pogue, not really a kook. Just an ordinary man like the rest of the world. Y’know, stepping on that island is like being in a fucked up alternate universe.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“I am not!” The stomping of your foot says otherwise. “It’s the worst place I’ve ever been.”

“It’s the best place.”

It’s amusing to watch your cheeks puff in frustration. “Only because of the little notoriety your family has there.”

A slow smirk spreads out like elastic, leaning into you. “Well, of course, sweetheart.”

With anyone else, Rafe would be squashing them beneath his shoe like a bug for a comment like that. With you, however…he finds he wants to know all your thoughts regarding him, the good and the bad. Suck in all the information he can, leach off every emotion you hold for him. The anger, the disgust, the begrudging pleasure.

At the same time, Rafe doesn’t have to hide behind a polite smile or use his charm to peruse you. He’s his real self. The most based form of a soul he struggles to hold onto. Wants to lay the shreds of his soul at your feet like a sacrifice, irrevocably intertwined together.

A peculiar look morphs on your face. Like when you’re working through a difficult assignment. Unmoving, focused but this time on him, which is extremely rare. Usually, you shield yourself away in a layer of ice that solidifies you.

“What?”

“What?” You parrot back, lashes blinking rapidly to break your connected gazes.

“What are you thinking about?” He angles his head low to follow your eyes.

Rafe half expects the typical retort of: ‘You don’t need to know all my waking thoughts.’

“Just…Doesn’t everyone on the island think he was a true pouge?”

So, you have listened to his rants before.

“People remember and think what they want to. Ward doesn’t have to answer to any of them.” His eyes narrow. “Why?”

Your fingers begin to fiddle with themselves. Twisting fingers in knots, squeezing the tips in a random pattern.

Again, he asks. “Why’re you so interested?”

“What? Now you’re gonna be mad I’m talking to you?”

Sass is a defense mechanism you use often; one Rafe finds the most annoying but just as addictive to combat with. It continues in his silent stare.

“I guess… I’m just confused why you would want to work with him so badly?” Your tone goes from curious to condescending within a blink of an eye. “If my dad treated me like that, I’d want to be as far away from him as possible.”

The straightening of his spine is immediate. “You don’t know shit about my dad.”

“Just that he treats you like shit –”

“Shut up –”

“Bet he’d love to know his only son is a psychotic rapist!”

His eyes bulge. A moment of stillness that enraptures the both of you. The bickering was reeving him up to ravish you across the countertop. Now, his mind whirls from the total 180 you’ve pulled on him. Never has he heard you utter those condemning words before. Rafe didn’t think you’d succumb to that dark truth, let alone say it out loud.

A scoff hiccups deep from his chest. “What fucking proof you got of that, sweetheart?” Shifting closer, your face pinches in as Rafe leers, “Your wet cunt cumming each time I force it in?”

It’s a low blow you take with stride, a flinch before you're sneering. “What about that little coke problem of yours?”

There.

There it is.

The real reason you’ve gone down this path of conversation. Nosing your way into things pretty girls like you shouldn’t concern yourself with. Much less with the intention set in your shoulders.

“You trying to blackmail me?” The chuckle comes low, barely a sound of amusement. “Oh, honey,” Rafe mocks. “You didn’t know he already knows?”

The façade of your bravado crumbles, a half step taken back with weary eyes. He tsks and cocks his head back, disappointed. With a sudden swing of his arm, the back of his hand knocks your glass of water to the other side of the room. The shattering of glass and your shriek harmonize, creating the perfect symphony to his sudden charging to you, arms an unknown mix until he shoves you against the wall.

Both hands hold your throat. Nails pierce his skin and scratch along the length trying to find a better leverage. The squeezing doesn’t stop until your eyes are pleading and swimming in the dark waters of fear.

“I may be a fuck up but I’m still his son.” Jerkily releasing you, your head wobbles on your neck. Hands barricading you in, Rafe lowers his head until your noses touch. Your panting breaths feed his next ones in.

“Don’t threaten me if you can’t back. It. Up!” His final warning is yelled, vibrating against your lips as his palms smack beside your head with each pointed word.

Your tears have gone unnoticed until you curl to the side and his lips taste the salty moisture upon your skin. Normally, the sight of them would soften his anger and harden his cock, leading the situation to hot make-up sex.

It isn’t enough. Not today.

Not when his future is within his grasp, his for the taking. Not with the knowledge of you trying to get rid of him, the idea as pointless as it is terrifying. Going to desperate measures when you should be desperate for him.

With a practiced move, Rafe retches your hair between tightened knuckles and pulls until your neck is a long arch and facing him. He ignores the pain-filled yelp and weak hands patting his chest.

“You want me to force you? Is that it, baby, huh?” Rafe hisses.

He hauls you down until your knees fold beneath you. A sick delight like seasickness rolls down to his groin as he growls. Weak defiance lives in your eyes, frowning with his name on your tongue. It's a tug of war between Rafe’s hand and your struggle to rise, keeping your hair taunt. It’s the sight of him unzipping his fly that has you hitting his thighs with a renewed alarm.

“Rafe! Stop it –”

“Keep fightin’ and you’re only gonna make it worse f’yourself.” Rafe warns another yank just to hear you shriek.

Fisting the base of his cock, he pulls it out through the opening. He aims for your mouth, but you cringe making the tip smear on your chin. Rafe tuts, guiding your head right where he wants, and flexes his arm, sure to hold you in place.

“C’mon n’ open up,” he drawls. “Take your punishment.”

Stroking up to the tip, his thumb sweeps along the ridge and tilts his hips forward, hovering just above those plush lips. Tapping the red flesh on your closed mouth, Rafe splays his hand on your chin and squeezes on the delicate bones until your jaw unhinges with a wail to relieve the pain.

Like a serpent striking, he’s pushing in before you can react. Bumping against the roof of your mouth, the rigids of your hard palate make him jerk with sensitivity and envelop the next few inches. The hot, wet rush has sparks crackling up his spine. All that heat and anger spirals down to his cock, the need to claim brooding in his balls. Grunting your name with each gag you give, his thumb caresses the corner of your lip as he watches enthralled.

A part of him wants to take his time. Use gentle strokes to coax your mouth open, train you with patience to swallow his cock just right.

Instead with a mean smirk, Rafe plunges half his cock in. The clenching of your throat makes it hard to go in deeper, the constriction of your resistance inflames his pleasure. The underside of his dick feels the rippling of your tongue like a wave, chasing after it eagerly. Your high-pitched whines are muffled by the weight of him, gargles of air getting blocked as he teases the opening of your throat.

“Can’t believe I’ve gone this long without fucking that mouth of yours.”

Saliva accumulates, thick and slippery as his cock triggers your gag reflex, spit dribbling down your jaw. Your drool coats him to create a smooth glide, lower abdomen tensing, and stuffing further in. Such a pretty sight seeing you like this, gurgling and coughing between the space of your cheeks and his cock. Eyelashes clumped, a darkening hue on your cheeks, small fistfuls of his jeans. Your gagging clinches your throat, locking him in tight before it flutters open.

Rafe allows you to pull back far enough to catch a breath. Coughing out into shaky inhales, lips puffy from abuse and slicked with combined spit and precum. Standing above you like this gives him the most delicious view of your stretched neck. From the tip of your chin to the swell of your cleavage in an expanse of skin that should be carved into marble.

Words tangle as you stutter and gasp, Rafe hushing you with faux tenderness. “I’m going to fuck ya throat now…”

Weaving his fingers once more into your hair, Rafe pushes back into your avoiding mouth. Your fighting ignites a primal urge of take, take, take within him. A bloating want fills his void. Sticky and black as tar that he wants to pour onto you, anoint you with his devoted desecration.

There is little mercy with the pistoling of his hips, ass clenching in pointed thrusts. Mummering encouragements of that’s it, such a good girl and various pitches of your name, Rafe feeds you his length with a fevered urgency. The squelching of his dick opening your throat layers with his low moans, watching as each inch disappears until your lips are kissing his pelvis.

His hips jerk involuntarily as a tickling of pleasure jolts him, your wet bottom lip moving on the sensitive spot just below his base and above his heavy balls. It feels so good and you’re not even actively sucking on him. Just a soft wet home for him to press in farther, another place he has laid claim to.

Fringes of hair droop between his eyes, almost hunched over as he pulls his hips to ram back in. Wet spots glisten on your chest, staining your tank top. A relentless pace fueled by rage and an ache.

“Fuck – ah – I’m gonna cum.” Rafe says hoarsely and tilts his head back if only to starve off his orgasm by looking away. “My good lil’ slut…swallow my cum.”

Angling your head up, Rafe slides his cock down all the way to the root. Grip tightening on your head, he rocks side to side to wiggle in as much as he can. You're choking helplessly as he fucks so deep, it feels like he might reach your heart. One hand skates down to your neck and palms the bulge, holding it there to experience the swell of it. Minuscule thrusts nudge the back wall of your esophagus, his thumb rubs up and down where the head sits.

The scrunching of your eyes and difficult breaths boosts his ego but he needs to see you. Needs you to see him.

“Look at me.” His fingers press in painfully. Eyes flickering half open, the devastation set in your irises kindles his breaking point. “Ugh,” he grunts your name like gravel between his teeth.

Stilling in the depths of you, Rafe cums.  

Your muscles intuitively constrict and swallow, suctioning him with hot, white pleasure. The wet of your cheeks is like velvet as you drink his cum.

Seconds or minutes pass before he loosens his hold. Loud choking fits break between your breathing once you're free from his cock, covered in a layer of drool and residual cum. Rafe pets your hair, trying to smooth out the knots he’s made.

You’re still crying as he calms down from his high, face nuzzling into his hip to hide. God, he’s going to get hard again with you looking so pathetic.

“Did you learn your lesson, pretty angel?” Dragging rough fingers through your hair, he bunches a handful and barely pulls, your neck like a snapped cord as your head flops back. An index finger tenderly traces down your cheek to your swollen lips.

“Any more empty threats and I’ll rape your mouth until you pass out.”

[katarrinskey]

He holds my body in his arms

He didn't mean to do no harm

And he holds me tight

He did it all to spare me from the awful things in life that comes

And he cries and cries

—————————————————-

COMMISSION INFO



[sunshine-jesse]

In defense of Andrew Graves: Facing Yourself​

Alt title: Andrew Graves: The Will to Plow Her

I think my analysis of Andrew is one of the best essays I've written so far. But since then, I think I've expanded my understanding of his character in a way that urges me to add on to my prior essay. What I intend on doing is further fleshing out my reading of Burial, and going deeper in detail on why I think Decay ends up panning out the way it does. This essay will end up sharing a lot of text with my prior one, but will add enough scattered throughout that I think it merits a complete reread instead of just scrolling down and seeing what's new.

I've focused a lot on Ashley in my past writings. She's my favorite character in the story (and depending on how episode 3 pans out, maybe ever) and I'm pretty mortified by how some parts of the fandom have reacted towards her, so I pretty much made it my life's mission to push back against that. From highlighting the ways Andrew mistreats her, to coming up with justifications for her behavior that aren't just being a manipulative bitch, I really wanted to prove that a more favorable picture of her could be painted than most were willing to.

But in doing so, I've left Andrew in the dust.

In highlighting his flaws and the ways he mistreats Ashley, I think I've implied a level of intentionality to his actions that I don't believe he has. When I say that Ashley did nothing wrong, it's in direct response to the idea that she holds the most responsibility and agency in how their dynamic plays out, when in reality, I believe she has very little. Most of her actions in-story are in reaction to a variety of stimuli that come directly from Andrew, that he has control over and are aware of how Ashley feels about. His refusal to use clear and direct language to deny her most toxic tendencies causes her more and more stress as time goes on, and instead of giving her clear answers he opts to be catty, passive-aggressive, or, at his worst, threatening. Never direct and never clear, except when establishing boundaries over his name after the choking scene. Andrew fails to help Ashley be better in some frankly depressing ways throughout the whole story, especially in their childhoods, so we never get to see where she'd fall short if given a better influence.

...

Kind of. More on that later!

In mentioning his thing about preferring to be called Andrew instead of Andy, I also implicitly mention one of the places where Ashley falls short in their dynamic and could stand to do better: recognition.

This scene says a lot. It's the most heartbreaking scene in the game, if you ask me, and probably the single most profound and well-written moment in the entire story. I could write a whole 2000 word essay on it alone, but I've already said most of what I have to say about it through what I've said in other essays, so I'll spare you all that. Instead, I'll use it to highlight something:

"I had fun."

Their dysfunction is fun to her. She's so used to abuse and alienation that even the most awful, stressful (as far as we know) route of the game is still fun to her. And that's not a sign of her being a secret evil sociopath or whatever; that's actually not abnormal behavior to develop for a lifelong victim of abuse. Those highs and lows, those strong emotional highs and lows are -addicting-. They're -fun.- Part of why abuse victims get into so many abusive relationships is because it's easy to pick up on those patterns of thought and take advantage of them, and the cycle of abuse is often furthered when a victim of abuse tries to draw out mutually abusive behaviors in someone with no interest in having that kind of dynamic.

This is where I'm willing to acknowledge Ashley's manipulative tendencies. Not just as a matter of controlling Andrew for its own sake, purely out of jealousy or possessiveness, but as a matter of trying to further the only dynamic she's ever known in her life. Better the devil you know, right?

That push and pull- that emotional rollercoaster- is all many of us know. And it's all Ashley knows. This dynamic is something she's so used to that she reacts incredibly harshly to any attempt to change it, because she doesn't know that things can be better. Because of this, she refuses to engage with who Andrew really is, and tells herself- and him- that she *hates* Andrew:

This scene is almost as heartbreaking as the above one in a lot of ways.

Andrew putting his foot down about the Andy/Andrew name dichotomy wasn't arbitrary and it wasn't just about his comfort. It was about Andrew giving a clear indication about what needs to happen for their relationship to improve. He's recognizing the cycle between them and wants to put a stop to it, because he's confident that things between them CAN get better and evolve into something healthier. Ashley, not understanding that their dynamic can get better, because their "fun" little push and pull of abuse is all she knows, rejects that. She rejects the unknown, and says- in Andrew's mind at least- that she'll never accept that new dynamic, nor will she accept who he really is.

Ouch. No wonder he looks so sad in that screenshot.

They have a conflict of understanding here, and I think it's fair to pin most of the responsibility on Ashley. Andrew was clear in what he wanted, and Ashley just... Didn't. She didn't see the importance of it ("...whatever that means in practice") and didn't really ask. This gap in communication, perfectly displayed in this scene, is likely what causes the Decay ending. He wants things to be better, and wants to treat Ashley better, and whether or not he understands the ways in which she communicates with him is in part what determines what he sees her as.

But there's a lot of evidence that he always wanted things to be better, that he always wanted to treat her better. But external factors have made it very, very difficult, and I think there are two key points in which he started to shed the importance of those external factors and seek that better relationship, both of which happening in the apartment: The killing of the warden and the 302 lady. In the first case, he was forced to do it to protect Ashley in a way he hadn't done before, or depending on how you look at it, since the death of Nina. But the intentionality was the key point here. After this point, he calls Ashley Leyley, which may or may not seem important at this point, but it's something I'll draw attention to later, so keep that in mind.

Next is the killing of the 302 lady, which is the much, much bigger point. We don't learn much about it until later on- as at first he just gives an excuse about the nail gun that doesn't line up with what we see on the map- but during the dream, it's revealed it was a calculated, intentional killing that he did to make sure there was no evidence left behind, and because Ashley (supposedly) would've wanted him to do it anyway. I say supposedly because Ashley herself doesn't seem to ever want Andrew to kill for her past Nina's death, because he only ever kills for her to defend one or both of them. If you want more evidence that violence for violence's sake isn't something she wants, look at this part in the final dream:

A knife isn't what opens the door, despite it being placed on the ground in that very map. While it seems obvious that the knife (violence) would be the key to solving the puzzle, it's put there explicitly to show you that it isn't. It's not what she wants; what she wants is a flower.

So, why is this important? Why am I centering Ashley- again- when this essay is supposed to be about Andrew?

It's because these two killings are when Andrew's self-delusion over who he really is starts to break down. It's still there, mind, as he still relies upon Ashley as an excuse to justify it, but, as well as what I've said before, the name ultimatum is an implicit confession that the normalcy he finds comfort in is starting to lose its grasp on him. There's a lot that's been said about Andy being something close to a "moral impulse" for Andrew, given his child self's reaction to Nina's death being the only thing he does that approximates a normal moral response to his and Ashley's actions, but if you do think that- which I think is a reasonable thing to think even if I don't necessarily agree- there's something you must also keep in mind:

-He- is the one who doesn't want to be called that anymore. -He- is the one who wants to let that moral impulse go, and Ashley is the one making it difficult.

That reading is assuming that Andy is a moral impulse, which I think is... either wrong or too simplistic. Every time I see that reading, it's from someone who's trying to paint him too sympathetically and absolve him of most moral responsibility. I also find it infantilizing to equate morality with childhood in such a way? But that's another tangent that I didn't sign up to talk about. What I do think, however, is that it's a useful framing device to display his own relationship with morality; the allegory to his child self doesn't have to be there for the general pattern to exist.

When Ashley starts to grill Andrew over the killing of the 302 lady, he gets mad. Very mad. Ashley sees it as pointless, as him covering his own ass, but he genuinely did it for her sake, because he thought that's what she wanted, and that it'd make her happy. But what makes her happy isn't violence- or any similarly extreme action for that matter- it's attention and validation. Something he's always reluctant to give her, despite the fact that he always chose her over the alternatives. But despite making that choice, it's always empty and meaningless, because in Ashley's mind, he never did it for her sake.

And hoo boy, does he not like it being framed like this.

He is perfectly willing to do whatever it takes to keep them happy and safe... but only for her sake. It has to be for her sake. He still needs that traditional role, and he still needs to have a narrative in which he's the good guy- a protector. Because it can't be for his sake. It can't be because that's what he wants. He has to uphold that romantic (in the literary tradition sense) ideal. His darkly romantic idealistic streak colors many of his actions and beliefs. This is most plainly visible in his quip about a double suicide being romantic, but it's also visible within the symbolism present within his dream, such as how he can only pave his own path in blood unless Ashley lights the way. It's visible within his appreciation for poetry, and it's visible with how the cultist within the dream speaks in Shakespearean English.

But the transient nature of this ideal is also revealed within this dream, because there's never a cohesive, guided path, even with Ashley there to light it up. Contrary to Ashley's dream, where you literally have maps showing you where to go, Andrew's dream has many more dead ends and no map to guide him. The symbolic role he acts out gives him no clarity, and there's no overarching narrative; merely a bunch of disconnected symbols.

This is contrasted with Ashley's dream, which has narratives so clear that the story literally gives the dream an episode title.

In a sense, he wants to view himself as an actor acting out a role in a story. He wants his life to be poetic, to represent something greater, and to have a cohesive narrative. This is why he's so disconnected from his true desires: He's more concerned with acting as a representative of an ideal than a person with agency. But every time the mask drops, every time he stops acting, his true self becomes visible. He naturally settles into being comfortable around Ashley, in treating her with warmth and kindness, and their banter becomes much less toxic. As intent as he is on acting out his role, it does nothing for him, and as his dream sequence shows, it doesn't even form a cohesive narrative, because he can't act one out. It's too contrary to who he really is, and what he really wants. But that idealization doesn't just apply to himself, it also applies to Ashley. Specifically, who Ashley is, vs who he wants her to be.

In his unique dream sequence, he sees two versions of Ashley; the child version of her- Leyley- and the adult version of her- Ashley. And the differences in the ways he interacts with the two of them are stunning. Leyley is an obstinate, annoying child. She's the one he NEEDS to take care of, and he hates that. He hates Leyley for what she did for his childhood. He hates that he needs to provide for her. He has the option of trying to kill her, even, over something as small as a candle!

But in the room with all the murders, the gilded cage, he sees Ashley as an adult. This version of Ashley is stuck in a closet that he himself has to open- and to choose to see. Their interactions are calm and friendly. She teases him a bit, sure, but she's still helpful, and they have fun together. He doesn't need her, and she doesn't need him. He needed Leyley- needed the candle- but here, there are other limbs strewn about for him to take. And, crucially, he doesn't even have the option to kill this Ashley for one of the limbs.

And during the choking scene, he lets her go the moment she acknowledges that he doesn't need her anymore. This is the first time we know of that he seems comfortable enough to set a clear boundary, which is acknowledging that their prior dynamic is dead and that they're now Andrew and Ashley, not Andy and Leyley. It's a bit late to express a clear boundary -after- literally acting like he was going to kill someone, but it's the first time we know of that he sets a clear standard for what, in his mind, would improve his relationship with Ashley.

After all, what he wants is to want her, not need her. He wants Ashley for Ashley's sake. Not for what she can provide him. He doesn't even need her for sleep, he just wants her. But Ashley has trouble acknowledging this, because he's never before shown that WANT. Only a NEED. She keeps trying to find ways to make him need her, because she's never seen what his desire for her is really like. She's only ever seen him desiring someone else, someone other than her.

She's only ever seen him as Andy, because she's never truly seen Andrew, only the violence he can inflict on others. But Andrew can see both:

He can see Leyley, the needy, bratty child who always needs his attention, that he needs to provide for. The one he hates and wants to get rid of. The one he kills for to protect.

And he can see Ashley, the one who engages in friendly and cute banter with him. Who comforts and shows him physical affection. The one he loves. The one he kills for to make happy.

He just can't choose which one he wants to see. Every outside influence- from his parents, to Julia, to Nina- makes him see her as Leyley. Ashley herself makes him see her as Leyley too, whenever she brings up all the things he did for her, and calls him Andy, his child self, instead of Andrew, his current self. And as long as he sees that child, he feels like one too, and can never give Ashley anything that comes from the heart.

But he really, really wants to see Ashley as an adult. He wants to take pride in her, how much she's grown, and how driven and competent she really is.

But god damn, does that bitch ever make it hard, because there IS no real difference between Ashley and Leyley. She's grown and changed over time, taking more adult (and stereotypically feminine) responsibility upon herself, but the fact that her temperament and personality hasn't changed much obfuscates that growth. When you talk to Ashley in the closet during the dream after getting the limb, Andrew asks Ashley to come out of the closet, but she refuses to come out because he won't invite Leyley over to play, which is a pretty strong metaphor for how he interfaces with different aspects of Ashley's personality and refuses to accept others. But the reality is that he needs to accept both, or rather, see her whole self as Ashley, rather than just the parts he likes.

In the end, it's him who has to make the choice how to see her. Ashley can only see what she's been shown, but Andrew can choose.

And in the basement scene, he makes that choice.

If Ashley refuses to leave him alone with their parents, that's it. In one of the most critical and important moments of his life, she couldn't give him the space needed to make up his own mind. She couldn't treat him as an adult. She couldn't see him as Andrew. If she does give him that choice, she chooses to acknowledge that Andrew is an adult who can be trusted to make his own decisions, even though she (perhaps foolishly) believes that this choice lines up with her own interests. And frankly it does either way, but in accepting their mom's offer, her chooses to see her as Leyley once and for all. He chooses not to reciprocate what Ashley showed him. He does it because he needs to, not because he wants to. Because it's his duty, not his desire.

This is what results in the Decay ending. Through his inability to see Ashley as an adult, he surrenders his agency and views all of his actions as an extension of his responsibilities, his role, which he no longer wishes to uphold. He dissociates fully from who he really is, acting in accordance with that disconnected, barely-cohesive narrative that exists only within his mind. The game starts to resemble the heartwrenching tragedy that many seem to take for granted that it is, as their dynamic fully doubles down on its painful toxicity. And, in an example of a poetic book end, Ashley's dream shows a double suicide, closing the book on their tragic tale.

It's tragic. It's heartwrenching. It's poetic. It's beautiful.

...Except it's not. Not at all.

It's actually fucking stupid, pointless, and brutal, and Burial shows us that. When we view their spiral as beautiful, we project the same darkly romantic ideal that Andrew possesses onto the story.

But the actual reality is horrifying.

Ashley spends most of Decay terrified of Andrew, the one person she found comfort in. He acts cold, distant, and aggressive towards her, showing pointless cruelty instead of any warmth. All she wants is comfort; all she wants is to not die. She doesn't want to engage in this death spiral at all, and, in her dream sequence, shows none of the same willingness to die alongside Andrew that Andrew does with her. The moment we stop focusing on the end of the Decay dream sequence, which has very striking imagery, and if you choose not to shoot, one of the most beautiful scenes in the game, we can see it for what it really is:

A scared animal running away from a predator.

The moment you see Decay through Ashley's eyes, and not the perspective of some romantic ideal, Decay becomes terrifying, tense, and painful. There is no catharsis to be had in this tragedy. It's easily avoidable as long as Andrew chooses to engage with reality, and not the empty promises of his mother and incoherent narrative of his ideal.

Finding beauty and meaning in tragedy is how we cope with the harshness of reality. But there is no coherent narrative to the tragedies we experience, just like there's no coherent narrative to the ideal Andrew wishes to uphold. It's something we create- that he creates- but it's not something that actually exists.

And when Andrew casts aside his desire for that ideal, and the responsibilities it shackles him to, it grants him clarity that he never had before. He sees the world for how it really is, and acknowledges that nobody- the least of which their mother- is as different from Ashley as they pretend to be.

They're no better than her, and he's tired of people pretending that they are. People are all the same, no matter what ideals they try to uphold and represent. They still sacrifice others in the name of advancing themselves, still punch down whenever they can, and still lay blame on those beneath them rather than try to take control of their lives. They just use those ideals to justify themselves, but Ashley, and now Andrew, reject even the need for that justification.

This is why I believe the story is nihilistic. Not in that it asserts the inherent meaninglessness of life, but in that it grapples with the ideals we uphold and how they obfuscate the reality of the world we live in. The story, intentionally or not, highlights how ideals are often but a pretense we use to justify what we were likely going to do regardless, and how holding to them too strongly can lead to our ruin- and how monstrous they make us look to those who do not share them.

Consequently, this is how I view the part of the fanbase who thinks Decay is a good ending.

(the characters themselves represent existentialism rather than nihilism but i couldn't really fit that analysis in here without it feeling forced so i might cover that another time)

From that point on, their relationship becomes a lot more friendly, lighthearted, and playful. They ironically start acting more like children, but to quote CS Lewis:

"Critics who treat adult as a term of approval, instead of as a merely descriptive term, cannot be adult themselves. To be concerned about being grown up, to admire the grown up because it is grown up, to blush at the suspicion of being childish; these things are the marks of childhood and adolescence."

He's not ashamed of being playful with Ashley, or showing affection towards her. He's grown up. He finally sees her, and himself, as an adult- although he still doesn't show that in full until much later on (more or that later). But in Decay, he still sees her as a child, and to an extent, probably himself. Let's compare the ways in which he reacts to being called Andy. In Decay, he lashes out at Ashley and gets angry, even threatening her. But in Questionable Burial, he calmly says that Andy is dead and doesn't need Ashley's comfort, but still tries to reassure her that she's still needed. He's not ashamed of or hostile towards their prior dynamic, because he's grown past it. He still acknowledges Ashley's need to feel needed, but here, he recognizes its importance to her, whereas he was hostile towards it before.

It's a display of respect towards her feelings.

This interaction doesn't happen in the Sane ending, however. He doesn't play games with her and is just a lot less fun to be around all together. Why is that? Because he still hasn't yet shaken viewing Ashley as Leyley there. He still views her as a burden, as someone who needs taking care of. He's calmly accepted that, too, mind you, but he lacks respect for her because she's still a child, in his mind. But in Questionable?

The vision did more than just make him extremely embarrassed and lay his deepest desires bare. It forced him to recognize Ashley as an adult. When choosing between "Never" and "Never say never," if Never is chosen, the burden of thought is lifted off of him. But if Ashley chooses "Never say never!", he has to reckon with the fact that Ashley is an adult, someone who can consent to those kinds of things. Someone who MIGHT. Someone who has agency, and can make her own decisions. And more importantly… someone who can trust him to make his own.

Whether he desires sex or not is secondary; he's always had those feelings and has always been ashamed of them. But now that the part of him where that shame came from is dead and buried, there's no childish impulse to grow up. There's no attachment to the hate and bitterness he had before. Look at what he worries about when he picks up that she's uncertain or confused about who he is now:

​

It's her feelings.

He wants to be fun to be around. He wants to make Ashley happy. He loves her, and not as a romantic interest or even as a sibling. He loves her independent of all that baggage.

He loves her as a person.

Their relationship runs contrary to societal ideals in some pretty huge ways. So contrary, in fact, that it's hard for some to accept it as anything good, that it can ever be best for the people involved. It's incestuous. It involves them killing and eating their parents. It involves them distancing themselves so much from society that it's hard to believe they'll ever fit in it again. It's chaotic, it's messy, it's codependent, and maybe even toxic. And yet, here they are. They're coexisting. They're happy. They're healing. They're navigating the world in the only way they can: together.

Meanwhile, in Decay, Andrew refuses to allow himself to get closer to Ashley. He surrenders all agency to her, buys into his own narrative, drinks his own Kool-Aid, and may or may not condemn one or both of them to death in the process. Like it or not, the only path where Andrew takes ownership of his life is the one where he's closest to his sister. It's the one where he decides where they will go next, the one where he decides his own feelings matter, and acts in accordance with what he wants instead of how he thinks he should act.

His agency, his freedom, and his growth don't happen in spite of his codependency; they're happen because of it. They can't grow alone. They can't heal alone.

In reading the story, one must interrogate how important those societal ideals are in the face of the realities of what makes people happy. Are those ideals worth upholding in spite of this? Can we really allow people to fall through the cracks in the name of social norms? Can we blame people for taking rash actions when the social contract has failed them?

Or are we so blinded by those ideals that we can't see that people can be happy while blatantly disregarding them?

All I know is that in Burial, Andrew, having cast aside normalcy, now appears to be truly happy for the first time in his life.

Who are we to take that from him?

[viridian-dagger]

Seiðr of a Death Singer - 4

Rating: Explicit/Mature - 18+ only! Minors DNI

Warnings: named/minimally described oc, mute!oc, animal death/animal sacrifice (its a fish), witchcraft, Kjartan and Sven and some awful shit they did mention, death, mutilation of bodies (Skade), Uhtred is lowkey in his dumb bitch hours (its not his fault but like. come on man), Skade is really just a warning in herself but also I'm making her more of a bad bitch bc I can and I want to, allusion to madness, curses, emotional progress is made with more than one pretty boy 👀... but then progress is lost with another lmao

Word count: 5k

Author's Note: cross posted on ao3, beta read by @witchoftheewilds and dividers by @zaldritzosrose found here ! please let me know what you think and if you want to be added to the taglist 🖤

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Røskva spent most of the ride to Aweltun in the shadows of her own mind. The things she could do to spare Uhtred and the rest of the men from any stray curses the other seer might try to throw at them were being meticulously catalogued. But she was truly, deeply afraid; the salves and tinctures she learned from her nan were nothing against chaos Bloodhair’s seer would undoubtedly unleash.

She would have to rely on what she’d learned from Hrafn, things she never forgot but frightened her all the same.. 

Hrafn had been a frail, elderly seer Kjartan had brought to Dunholm when she was 14. The seer had been half blind, half mad, and nearing death but she had taught Røskva a great many things she hadn’t known before. How to throw a curse, how to give blood offerings, how to show allegiance to the Gods, how to bend others to her will, how to use their blood against them… Some of her lessons had been terrifying. 

But in the fear and uncertainty, Hrafn had also been compassionate. She had been teaching Røskva how to sever the ties of a blood bond less than a month after arriving in Dunholm when Kjartan overheard. He had killed her and the old woman's head spent a month on a pike on the outer wall. 

She wasn’t sure exactly how willing anyone other than Sihtric would be to help her; Finan and Osferth wouldn't understand what she had to do, and Uhtred’s loyalty to the Gods wavered in her mind as she thought about how close he was to the priest. Sihtric would understand, especially if she reminded him what Hrafn taught her. She had never seen Sihtric so terrified in her life when the old woman had grabbed him by the chin and whispered 'don't fight the call of fate, boy’. 

But the closer they rode, the more unsettled she felt. The air felt heavy, and the visions blurred with reality as she fell in and out of them easily. Her only foothold in time was the conversations happening around her and Finan’s chest pressed against her back.

“We will stop here and scout,” Uhtred called out, snapping her out of her haze as the horses came to a stop. She couldn’t tell if the rot and smoke was in her mind alone or if it truly lingered in the air, but it made her feel ill regardless.

Finan had helped her down from his horse before she watched him disappear into the treeline, Uhtred and Osferth looking after him while Sihtric plopped down onto a stump to sharpen his seax. She took the opportunity to slink into the brambles and thickets, ripping plants and herbs out of the ground as she went. She grabbed anything that she thought could be helpful; purple and black 

 Røskva hated the way her hands shook as she made her way over to the near-frozen stream. Sinking to her knees, she broke up the thin layer of ice on the surface, shivering as the frigid water splashed up, raining droplets onto her skin. 

She waited and watched, and when she found what she was looking for, took a breath and plunged her hand into the water. The wriggling, slippery creature nearly escaped, but the tip of her blade found its home between the gills and the fish went still.

“Røskva!” Sihtric shouted, making her jump as he stalked to her side. “Did you not hear me calling for you? What are you—” he asked, but cut himself off when she glared at him.   

She pointed at the small, shaky rune Hrafn had tattooed on the back of her hand. Sihtric’s face went pale and he grabbed the Mjölnir hanging around his neck. She saw rapidfire emotions flicker in his eyes before they went hard and cold, determination burning in them.

“What do you need?” he whispered, and she felt something in her soften against her own will as she smiled at him sadly and she shook her head, lifting the limp fish in her hand for him to see. “You are afraid,” Sihtric said softly, and she nodded, not bothering to lie. “It was the vision?” He asked again, earning another nod. “Be swift. Finan has returned with a survivor. They are making a plan, but we will leave soon.”

She gave him a soft smile before turning to the water, digging the blade into the fish and slicing it open with one clean cut, and it took her a moment to find the heart. The warmth from the small organ seeped into her palm, and she felt a small pang of sadness ring through her chest as the life fled from the heart, turning a slightly ashen grey.

She hadn’t noticed that Sihtric had dropped to his knees beside her and made a hole in the frozen ground for her. She gave him a small smile in thanks and set to work, making a nest of fibrous roots, wilting berries, and musky flower petals. She placed the heart inside the nest and piled the berries and flowers high, before covering it with the unearthed dirt. She closed her eyes and mouthed the words she never dared to speak before, but could never forget.

Time seemed to stop as she chanted — the words less than a whisper in the breeze — and she felt the world fall away as the thread of fate was weaved. Gone was the sound of the rushing stream breaking the ice and the smell of frost as she watched the iridescent strand burst from soil and streak out into the aether, and she felt the blood sing in her ears as the strand went taut and latched onto the other’s heart; the curse had been made and would not be broken.

“Røskva, we must return,” Sihtric said softly, breaking her from her daze. She felt as though she was half in a dream still; nothing quite in focus as he took her hands and pulled her off the ground to her feet. “Do you have need of this?” he asked, grabbing the carcass of the fish. She shook her head, walking away from the stream toward the sound of Uhtred and Finan’s voices. 

When she stumbled back through the thickets of shrubs, she found a new person speaking to Uhtred and Osferth in hushed tones while Finan stood within arms reach, face hard and eyebrows furrowed. “Did you lot have a good time playin’ around in the water?” Finan groused, sending an annoyed look over her shoulder.

“She was making an offering,” Sihtric lied, his voice even and steady. She would have believed he thought that was the truth if she hadn’t sent the curse herself. She hoped her confusion wasn’t betrayed by the fog that had settled in her mind, but Finan hadn’t spared a glance in her direction to notice anything to betray Sihtric’s lie; his gaze was focused entirely on Sihtric. 

“We do not have the time for this,” Uhtred snapped, voice thick with annoyance. “Bloodhair is near and we must move before we lose the chance!”.

“Do not lose this,” Sihtric whispered in her ear, pressing the knife she had abandoned into her palm, before slipping past where she stood and joined Uhtred.

She stared dumbly down at the knife in her hand, wondering how she had been so stupid to leave it. Finan’s gentle hand removing the knife from her grip took her focus as he spoke, voice soft in her ear, as they walked toward Uhtred. “You shouldn’t hide that in your boot anymore, darlin’, it’s too hard to reach,” he said gently, sticking the knife in her belt. 

She was about to respond, but her attention was caught by the unfamiliar man speaking to Uhtred, “Bloodhair was there this morning, lord, I swear,” he said, his voice shaking. “He burned the village and took the church.”

“I believe you, my friend,” Uhtred said kindly. “We will make haste, and save what we can.”

The journey to Aweltun was easy and quick, but every step brought a sharpness and clarity to her mind. The village was nothing but smoking ruins, completely abandoned save for a few Danes standing in the yard around the church in the center of town. The sight of the church alone was enough to turn her stomach, but the way rot seemed to seep out of the building into the ground and spread outward, reaching toward them made her heart lurch in her throat.

“Bloodhair is gone, lord, but the devil woman; she is in there,” the man whispered, pointing at the church. She watched the annoyance flicker on Uhtred’s face, but settle into a passive grimace as he looked at the smouldering remains of the village. “Am I still needed?”

“Go find your family,” Uhtred said softly, not bothering to look away from the Danes as the man scurried away. She could hear the blood rushing in her ears as they waited for a sign from Uhtred when he broke the silence, eyes finding hers. “You will not move from here unless you are being attacked, yes?” He asked, voice firm. 

She nodded, but gave him a gesture that made a smirk grow on Finan’s face as she walked away, giving Osferth a small smile as she passed him. He gave her a flat grimace in return as he was pushed forward, into the path of the Danes. She knew he was bound to be the distraction.

She watched the three of them communicate silently, Sihtric’s eyes cutting to hers to give a single burning look before finding the others again. Røskva fought the urge to scoff as Sihtric tapped the flat of Finan’s sword with his axe and ran out of sight. 

“She said ‘try not to get killed’, but with a truly stunnin’ amount of colourful words for you,” Finan whispered through a laugh as they ran in the opposite direction of Sihtric. 

Røskva strained to hear Osferth’s muffled voice, but flashes of blood and death cut through her mind like a white hot blade and she knew she couldn’t stand idly by and watch them be sent to their deaths. At the first clang of metal, she slipped her blade out of its hiding spot and ran to the church, hiding around the corner from the door.

She went completely unnoticed by the Danes as they rushed to the sounds of fighting, and by Uhtred and his men who went from one opponent to the next seamlessly.

Until suddenly it stopped; countless Danes lay dead, scattered around the churchyard as Finan, Sihtric, Uhtred, and Osferth made their way up the steps toward the door.

“Haesten told Beocca she is of the devil,” Uhtred said as she watched Finan try to peek through the window into the church.

“Then it might be an idea to bar the door and burn the place down,” Finan suggested. She hated the way Uhtred’s body tensed at the suggestion; Finan was right, and Uhtred couldn’t see it. “Why not?” He asked Uhtred.

“To Bloodhair she will be priceless,” Uhtred reasoned but something black swirled in her gut. The rot from the witch was taking hold of him; the cursed woman had him in her sights already. 

As soon as Uhtred stepped toward the church door, she forced herself to dart out and stand in front of the door. She held the blade behind her back, hands shaking. She would never stand a chance against him or the others — even Osferth would be able to cut her down — but she hoped Uhtred would listen to reason.

“Røskva, what are you doing here? I told you to wait in safety!” Uhtred snapped, eyes narrowing. “Stand aside, we must retrieve this seer.” She stood her ground and shook her head, eyes flickering to meet Finan’s gaze over her shoulder.

“Lord, she doesn’t want us to go in there. Maybe she’s got a good reason for it,” Finan suggested calmly. “Have you been havin’ visions of this place?” he asked.

‘Nothing but death here,’ she gestured in return. ‘Please, leave here. We will die if we stay.’

Finan went pale and made the sign of the cross, “We have to go, lord. Nothin’ here for us but death she said.”

“She would not lie, lord,” Sihtric added softly. 

“I do not care! I must bring her to Alfred and we will ransom her to Bloodhair!” Uhtred roared, eyes going wild. He seemed different than she had known him and she knew then that she had cast her curse too late; the seer in the church had bound Uhtred to her. The madness that she had cursed upon her was already reflecting in Uhtred — it would only get worse until she could unbind them.

‘She will take him,’ she gestured to Finan, pleading with her eyes for him to listen, and to disobey Uhtred this once if only to save his life. ‘Burn it with her inside. It is the only way to save him.’

“She said we must burn it,” Finan said, grief colouring his words.

“I care not what a sheltered little witch says! Stand aside!” Uhtred shouted, stepping toward her. She flinched, but pulled the knife out from behind her back, swiping it in his direction. 

“You would harm me? After all I have done to protect you?” He asked, stepping back as if she had dealt him a wound. His bright blue eyes shone with confusion and hurt. 

‘There is nothing here but death,’ she gestured again in vain, but he simply growled in anger and lunged for her, grabbing her wrist and twisting it roughly. The knife fell to the ground with a muffled slap and the scream of pain caught in her throat uselessly. She felt again like the helpless whelp of a girl that they had saved from hanging just over a week ago, but she felt less safe than she had ever felt in their presence.

“Røskva!” Finan shouted while Osferth cried out, “Lord, please!”

“Enough!” Uhtred growled, “Finan, bind her hands. She is a traitor to me.”

“Lord, she is not a traitor!” Sihtric argued.

“She is tryin’ to keep us alive,” Finan said as Uhtred pushed her toward the Irishman, out of the way of the door. Uhtred ignored them both and despite his protest, Finan bound her hands nonetheless. The binding was weak and loose, and his eyes bored into hers, teeming with regret as he did as his lord bid. 

She felt the string of fate she had woven grow tighter as the door swung open with a slow creeeeeeak behind her. Sihtric looked sickened and conflicted as he passed by her, following Uhtred into the church.

“I’m sorry, love, but there’s nothin’ I can do,” Finan whispered, leading her into the church with a deep grimace set on his face.

She heard the mirrored gasps from Uhtred and Sihtric, only seconds apart but equally as unsettled as they rounded the corner. She knew what was coming, she’d seen it already, but nothing prepared her for the smell of death and blood that hung in the air, stagnant and ominous. And the sight was worse than she had expected; the mutilated corpses strewn across the floor, hanging from the rafters, and impaled onto the wall. A Dane stood shrouded shadows against the wall on the far side of the church, but standing in the center of the room, perched against a small table and smirking up at the corpse strung on the rafters, was the woman cursed. 

Her blonde hair was matted and wild, tipped in blood, viscera up to her elbows as she held a human heart in her hands. But the worst was the hollow blackness in her eyes that seemed to only appear every time Røskva blinked. 

“You are Skade?” Uhtred asked, and Røskva cringed. Using her name did not give him any power over her; it only strengthened her hold on him. The Dane in the shadows reached for his axe but Uhtred and his men all drew their weapons. “You,” he said pointing to the Dane, “you will do nothing except go to your lord and tell him that Uhtred of Bebbanburg has his witch.”

Skade smiled and Røskva felt sick, “I knew it was you,” she purred.

“There will be a ransom to pay,” Uhtred said firmly, ignoring her.

“No,” she smirked, “you will go to my lord and tell him from this moment forth, Uhtred of bebbanburg is cursed. That the witch holds his heart in her hands,” Skade said, stepping toward Uhtred as she showed off the heart in her hand. “And she will squeeze it… and break it,” she said, digging her nails into the organ before letting it fall to the floor with a sickening, wet plop. 

The Dane looked between Uhtred and Skade, both of them saying “Go.” Røskva cut her gaze to Sihtric, and the look in his eyes was impossible to mistake; he would never doubt her again.

“It is you who are my prisoner now,” Skade smiled as the Dane squeezed out of the room past them.

“Seize her,” Uhtred demanded, but no one moved. “I said seize the witch Sihtric! Bind her hands!” he shouted, spitting the word as if it was a curse on its own. 

Sihtric sprung into action at the snappish tone, hastily unbinding Røskva’s hands before grabbing Skade and wrapping the length of rope around her wrists tightly. A murderous gleam sparkled in her eyes as Sihtric worked, “I have aligned myself with the three spinners of fate and taken hold of your life. You belong to me now—”

“And her mouth!” Uhtred shouted, sounding panicked as he stumbled backward. “I want to hear no more from this foul witch!”

A viscous smile spread on her face as Finan moved, producing another length of fabric to bind her, “—Your path is the path I choose for you Uhtred Ragnarsson and your spirit is mine to torment!” she shouted before Finan was able to silence her. 

Despite her now forced silence, Røskva couldn’t help but squirm under the seer’s gaze. It was truly empty save for the malice glittering in their depths.

“Cover her eyes,” Uhtred demanded, and she felt grateful for it as Finan slapped a hand over her eyes and instantly the air cleared of her poisonous rot. For a second, she thought she saw Uhtred’s eyes clear of madness, but with a blink they were wild and unfocused again. “We will take her with us to Aescengum.”

“Lord—” Osferth said, but Uhtred turned and stalked out of the church without acknowledging him. Osferth simply sighed and turned to Røskva, “He should have listened to you.”

‘He is blinded by her,’ she gestured with a halfhearted shrug.

“Osferth is right,” Sihtric mumbled, eyes dark as he stormed out of the church after Uhtred. The discord between them, and the sudden shift in Uhtred’s behavior had her mind spinning; how had she gotten hold of him? Bound him to her before seeing him? It made the knot in her gut tighten in discomfort as she trudged back out into the cold, praying the smell of death and rot didn’t linger. She knew it would though.

“I do not trust her, lord,” she heard Sihtric mumble as she walked out into the courtyard. He and Uhtred were standing toe to toe, frustration evident in both Sihtric’s face and the rigid set of Uhtred’s shoulders; she was almost sure she could see his hands shaking where they were fisted at his sides.  “She can ride with me if—”

“I said she rides alone!” Uhtred shouted, rage rolling off him in waves. The anger in his voice made her stop in her tracks; was he angry with her? He had every reason to be, but she hoped he could see now she was only trying to save them the suffering Skade would bring.

Guilt flashed in Sihtric’s mismatched gaze as he caught her eye over Uhtred’s shoulder, and Sihtric deflated as Uhtred whipped around to glare in her direction, his eyes hardening slightly before he turned back around and stomped away, back in the direction of the horses. 

“I will hear no more arguments, Sihtric. Put her on the horse and meet me on the road,” Uhtred shouted as he walked. “She better be worth the trouble she has already caused,” she heard him growl as he left.

“Where’s he goin’?” Finan asked as they watched Uhtred retreat.

Sihtric sighed in response, shoulders slumping as he hung his head. “To Aescengum. To Wessex’s aid, as always,” he muttered before grabbing the reins of the lone horse tied to the ramshackle fence surrounding the church and beginning to walk after Uhtred.

Osferth piped up from behind her, his voice so close to her it made Røskva jump. “He does not trust her.”

A cold sweat broke across her skin as she followed after Sihtric, pleading in her mind for him to turn and assure her that they weren’t talking about her, that she still had the sliver of trust she had earned in the last few days.

“Good, I don’t want her on my bloody horse anyway,” Finan scoffed and her heart stuttered in her chest, but she forced herself to keep walking. Shame caused her cheeks to heat and spread down her neck and chest, settling in her gut like acid.

She tuned out the conversation as they walked, trying to find a way to explain to Uhtred why she had tried to stop him, why Skade couldn’t be trusted. But any explanation felt meaningless; she had lost his trust. He had called her a witch with the same venom he had spat the word in Skade’s direction.

“Røskva,” a voice in her ear made her jump, her attention snapping to the source of the voice. She found raw emotion, unhidden and unguarded, on Sihtric’s face, eyes desperate and pleading. “Please, I will help you with what I can, but you must do something. Uhtred is… mad. Not even when Gisela–only when Ragnar–and Guthred–please. You must help me,” he begged, words tumbling out of his mouth in half sentences that made no sense to her. 

She could do nothing but stare at him, frozen in shock, and nod.

Relief seemed to swarm him instantly, tension bleeding out of his posture as a small smile grew on his face. “Thank you, I will do what I can to assist. I may be able to get Finan to help as well,” he whispered conspiratorially as they broke through the shrubs, finding the horses they had left; Uhtred’s chestnut stallion was gone already. “When we are in Aescengum, we will make a plan,” he nodded, walking away to his dappled mare. 

She couldn’t help but stare after him in confusion; the wild fluctuations in his emotions were unusual. Røskva could find no reasonable explanation other than Skade — her influence was affecting all of them.

“Røskva,” Finan’s voice called out, his voice coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Røskva seethed in silence at the disorientation it was giving her, eyes scanning the area. 

She hadn’t noticed when the oppressive fog settled on the meadow, obscuring nearly everything from view. 

“Røskva!” he shouted, voice booming in her ears. Suddenly, the fog cleared and she found Finan’s concerned face inches from her own, hands hovering over her shoulders as if he was afraid to touch her. “You alright love?” he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper, “Was that a vision? It was like you were starin’ right through me.”

She stamped out the confusion and settled on rage as she found Skade smirking beneath her gag with her vacuous eyes locked onto Røskva from where she sat, bound by the wrists to the saddle of a horse. 

‘We should have killed her when we had the chance,’ she gestured, stomping over to his horse.

Røskva was sick of the back of Uhtred’s head; she had been staring at it, mentally pleading for him to turn around and chat with the group as they rode, but he remained silent and just barely ahead of them as Aescengum appeared ahead of them in the valley. She could feel the weight of Skade’s gaze on the back of her own head, but she refused to give the woman the satisfaction. 

“I fear she may have got herself inside his head,” Finan grumbled, his voice gruff in her ear, “We should kill her and be done with it.”

“That will not kill the curse,” Sihtric argued, eyes cutting between her and Finan. She gave him a terse nod, but didn’t try to elaborate. He was right, and even if Finan and Osferth didn’t know it, she did.

“There is no curse!” Osferth called out from behind them. He had gotten the short end of the stick and was forced to tie his horse with Skade’s to ensure she couldn’t bolt.

“And if I say there is no Christian God, does that make it so?” Sihtric snapped back, whipping around to glare at Osferth over his shoulder.

“There is no curse, Sihtric!” Osfterth called back, ignoring the glare. Røskva couldn’t help but feel grateful that Osferth seemed unchanged and unbothered by Skade’s presence.

“I’ve seen a woman throw a curse and the next day a man is dead,” Sihtric said, voice going tight as he refused to look in her direction. The silence that followed made Røskva’s skin crawl; Finan and Osferth were clearly wondering if he had been talking about her. 

And Røskva couldn’t deny it — she had cursed one of Kjartan’s men when he offered to buy her and Thyra from Sven and Kjartan. Røskva had waited until the ale had begun to flow, stood on the table, and thrown the curse in the hall, for everyone to see. The men had laughed and jeered, not believing she had the ability to send a man to his death.

But when he broke his fast the next morning, he started leaking blood in every direction. The screaming and panic started soon after, followed by a blanket of silence. The man had fallen dead into his porridge, and she was the cause. 

She’d been careful not to show Kjartan her power before then, but rage had overtaken sense. Unfortunately, it had revealed something she wished she could have kept hidden. From that moment on, Kjartan knew what she had been capable of, and knew also when she had refused to carry out his command — a frequent occurrence. The whippings came more often after that, but she took them without complaint. She refused to let a man like Kjartan wield her like a sword when he had one of his own.

“Right,” Finan coughed, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “That is enough talkin’. To speak of it makes it stronger,” he whispered conspiratorially.  

As Aescengum rose ahead of them as the sun set in the sky, Røskva couldn’t help but feel nervous at the sight of it; it looked larger and stronger than both Dunhom and Eofferwic, but it looked oppressive and dark in the fading light. She’d never seen a Saxon keep before — the walls were high and made of stone; they looked as though they could withstand a siege for months on end. And the soldiers on the gate wore strange armour and held spears tipped with a glimmering metal.

The thought of the guards turning their spears on them had anxiety churning in her gut, but the gate opened without fuss as Uhtred rode up to them. Røskva wondered how long it would be till the Saxons turned on him; Uhtred was a Dane afterall. Her nan had warned her that the Saxons would only tolerate a Dane for so long before he showed his true alliance — to their God above all.

“Welcome to Wessex, Lady Røskva,” Finan whispered in her ear with a chuckle. She wasted no time sending an elbow into his ribs, smiling to herself at the groan of pain and the laugh that followed. “I deserved that, didn’t I?”

“Lord Uhtred!” A voice called out as they made their way into the courtyard, and fear seized her when she saw the big Saxon who had found them outside of Eofferwic, Steapa. Behind him stood Father Beocca, looking pensive. “The King would like to speak to you.”

“Could we not have a moment to rest, Steapa? We have been riding for days,” Uhtred groused in return.

“I’m sorry, lord, but the King said the matter was urgent,” Steapa said firmly.

She heard Uhtred groan as he dismounted, “Tell him I will be there shortly, I have a hostage to deal with.”

“Let your men deal with the hostage, you are needed,” Steapa said firmly, turning away. 

Røskva watched as Uhtred’s shoulders slumped and the burden he wore became immediately noticeable. He bore it with grace most of the time, but there was a weight on him the others did not have. She had seen glimpses of it, not able to put her finger on exactly what it was that plagued him, but now she understood what exactly that burden was: it was King Alfred and the whole of Wessex. 

A knife of sympathy twisted in her gut as she watched Uhtred send a pleading look in their direction, eyes seeking out Sihtric, Finan and Osferth, but his eyes passed over her as if she didn’t exist and her heart dropped; she had truly lost his trust. Skade was also not given the satisfaction of his attention — she wasn’t sure if that made her feel sick with regret or delighted that Skade’s influence hadn’t gone too deep.

She watched him retreat toward the stone walls of the burh, but he was stopped by a guard. A dangerous tension took over his body as they spoke into his ear. They argued for a moment before the guard walked away, leaving Uhtred where he stood, still but nearly vibrating with rage.

“Lord…?” Osferth called out. 

The cold sweat of anxiety spread across her skin as she turned, eyes immediately finding her and blazing with a rage she hadn’t yet seen. “The King is requesting Røskva’s presence. Now.”

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[jeremiahhawkinsfanfics]

JAYCE TRIPS ON VIKTOR’S CORSET AFTER SLEEPING TOGETHER 🩱😬🦶

Because one bed trope is also about waking up in the morning 😏

Read the whole fic on AO3

The distant bell of the Piltover clock tower rang the seventh hour of the day. Jayce slipped out of the sheets and sat on the bed, being careful not to wake Viktor – even though he knew all too well that it was almost impossible.

He stretched, savoring the feeling of his muscles coming back to life after a long night of sleep. He wouldn’t dare to imagine how terrible it would be if they still slept on their desks, let alone for Viktor.

He located the clothes he’d tossed on the floor the night before and spared a look at his partner’s worktable. It was the promise of brilliant notes on their next prototype that excited him.

But first things first: breakfast.

As he made his way to the door, shoes in hand to be as quiet as possible, his feet suddenly got caught in something heavy.

He tripped and fell to the floor with all his weight, an awful crash of curses and falling metal exploding through the silent lab. The floor greeted Jayce’s face with a loud and painful thud.

“Sakra kurva!”

Brutally awakened, Viktor jumped on the mattress, a hand pressed to his chest to keep his heart from escaping his ribcage. His eyes frantically searched for the source of the noise. “Jayce?! What the fuck are you doing?! You scared me half to death!”

“Ouch… What on Runetarra have I tripped on?”

Jayce mumbled some apologies. He awkwardly got up, finally identifying the culprit responsible for his fall. With rising shame reddening his ears, he realized he had tripped on Viktor’s spinal corset. And, seeing the angry look in his partner’s eyes as he followed his gaze, Jayce could tell he wasn’t happy about it.

“Oh, by Janna, is it too much to ask to be careful with this?” Viktor snapped, his accent curling even more strongly around his words in anger. “I can’t afford to have it broken.”

“Sorry Vik, I… I just didn’t see it” Jayce said, immediately kneeling to gather the brace and thoroughly checking he did not cause any damage.

The corset was heavy – much heavier than Jayce had anticipated. “That must be painful to wear…” he thought, while making sure the strong metal buckles and tight leather straps were intact. They looked worn from repeated use, but they hadn’t been damaged by the shock. A slight relief relaxed his shoulders, but it did little to soothe the guilt burning in his face.

“Do not worry,” Viktor sighed, slipping his long legs out from under the covers and rubbing his tired face with his hands. “It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have left it on the floor. I’ll put it against the wall next time.”

“No, really, sorry, Vik! I should have been more careful where I stepped. It doesn’t seem to have been damaged, but if you notice anything, let me know. I’m happy to help you fix it. And… sorry for waking you up. I was just going to grab breakfast. Go back to sleep, I’ll bring it back – it’s on me.”

Viktor shook his head.

“I really don’t think I could go back to sleep after such a scare. No, I’d better come with you, if you don’t mind waiting for me a few minutes.”

“Are you sure?”

Jayce was actually glad he could bring Viktor breakfast – just as much to make up for the accident as to soothe his own guilt. Risking damaging the medical equipment of a disabled friend wasn’t something he took lightly, and he truly hoped Viktor wouldn’t think less of him for the mishap.

“Yes, a little walk won’t hurt” Viktor concluded as he reached for his corset.

“Need help?” Jayce risked. This sounded like the only thing he could offer.

“I can put it myself” Viktor replied, his tone casual but firm. Jayce searched his expression for any trace of anger or reproach, but found none. It wasn’t enough to soothe him, though.

“I… I know. I just… want to make it up for tripping on it”.

Viktor looked at him with a mixed expression, somewhere between annoyance and endearment. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if considering the unknown implications of letting Jayce help him. After several long seconds, he sighed heavily, giving up to Jayce’s pleading look.

“If it can help you feel better” he resigned. “And quit those puppy eyes”.

A repentant smile spread across Jayce’s lips. He kneeled close to his partner and carefully took the corset in his hands. It was nothing like the women’s corsets he had seen, full of ribbons and laces, the ones in magazines he used to hide under his mattress. No, this looked more like an instrument of torture, with all its bolts, metal clutches, and complex tightening mechanisms.

“If you can make sure it aligns with the screws, that would help. That’s usually the part I struggle with. I’ll take care of closing it,” Viktor said, his voice low, as if embarrassed to let someone else put the corset on him. That may have been the case, but Jayce’s attention was drawn to something completely different.

“The… the screws?” he thought.

He got the answer to his question when Viktor slowly turned his back to him. Jayce’s mouth fell open in shock. Shining in the faint first beams of the sun, metal screws were deeply anchored into Viktor’s spine, directly within his vertebras, surrounded by long, pinkish scars. He had slept next to Viktor many times but had never noticed this—maybe because his partner was usually curled under the blanket when he woke up in the mornings. This was definitely not the work of a piltovian surgeon. The screws were solid, made to last, but with little regard for aesthetics, judging by the uneven scars that clawed Viktor’s back. This must have been excruciating to set up… to a point Jayce would rather not think too much about. The contrast between the harsh, utilitarian work was all the more jarring on Viktor’s delicate frame. It clashed unforgivingly with his pale shoulders, speckled with light freckles, his delicate nape where a playful beauty mark sat, and his sharp yet fragile-looking shoulder blades. A strange feeling stirred in Jayce—a feeling he couldn’t quite name; it was as if he had just discovered a butcher had shattered a beautiful work of art.

“Are you helping or staring?”

Viktor’s voice, harder than usual, snapped him back to the task at hand.

“Sorry I… I didn’t mean to…” Jayce quickly replied, focusing on wrapping the heavy leather corset around Viktor’s slender torso. It felt like caging a delicate bird.

“It’s alright, Jayce. I understand. I imagine it’s hard not to stare,” Viktor replied. His tone could have seemed neutral to anyone, but not to Jayce. By now, he knew Viktor well enough to recognize the dark undertone in his words. He focused on the task Viktor had assigned to him, carefully aligning each screw with the spinal corset until he heard a faint “click”.

“Is it ok like that?” he asked.

Viktor curved his back to check, then nodded as he started tightening the straps and setting the buckles.

“Does… does it hurt?” Jayce dared to ask.

“The corset or the screws?”.

“Well, both.”

“The corset is more… uncomfortable than painful. As for the screws, well… it’s not constant pain more like… reminders. If I push myself too hard, or if the weather is especially bad”. Viktor’s shoulders stiffen, clearly not used to discussing the topic so openly. “All very inconvenient, yet very much necessary”.

“Necessary?”

“A bad leg implies a lot of problems when you grow up – especially spinal issues. Just the corset wasn’t enough; growth completely wrecked my spine during my teenage years. It’s a side effect of constant uneven balance. It took the screws, and several years of wearing this corset day and night, tightening it a little more every week, for me to stand straight again”.

“It looks like… a heavy procedure”.

“It is. Heavy, painful and costly”.

“Could your family afford that?”.

An ironic snort choked Viktor’s throat. There was something cruel in this aborted laugh.

“Of course not. There are people in the undercity you go to when you can’t afford a real doctor – when you don’t really have a better choice. I was lucky enough that a… friend of mine - at the time I could have called him a mentor – was one of them”.

“And your parents? What did they think of this?”

Viktor froze, his shoulders stiffening noticeably. From behind him, Jayce could see his jaw clench so hard a vein became visible on his neck. His partner turned to him, his amber eyes expressing a feigned, studied casualness. But behind that apparent gaze, there was something dark that Jayce could discern but not identify—like the blurry contours of a distant image, some deeply buried truths.

“You should shave before we go grab breakfast.” Viktor said with a fake casual tone. “You look terrible”.

The topic of family was clearly off-limits.

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