#i am cutting out the part where i loop back to why this is the fault of capitalism

[snail-day]

"It's All Your Fault, Isn't It?"

Yan! SatoSugu x Reader Sum: You've had the chances, why didn't you take them. In the end you'll always just lose the purest of love. Last part of: Can my friend join?, This is Love, Right? ** Can be read as standalone fics** TW: Yandere Behaviors (Obsession, Manipulation, etc), Death of Child Character, Blood, Toxic Relationship Dynamics, Depression, Dubcon, Lactation, Pregnancy themes, SatoSugu, Angst No Comfort. MDNI WC: 7.7k

A/n: I got supperrr stuck in the loop of editing, so I am just gonna post it, I feel like rereading it after the tenth time. I almost just pressed delete lol. :) enjoy!

It’s all your fault, isn’t it?

You did this to yourself. You should have walked away when the chance was there, when the door was still open, even just a crack. You should have screamed, fought, run—anything to reclaim a sliver of your freedom.

But you didn’t.

You stayed.

Was it the security? The comfort of knowing you’d never struggle to pay bills or scramble to find work? Was it the way Satoru promised, over and over, that you’d never go unloved, never feel the ache of loneliness again?

Or was it something darker? Something you couldn’t quite admit to yourself?

You told yourself it was love. You told yourself you were lucky. How many women could say they had someone who’d give them the world? Someone who, with a flick of his wrist, could bend the rules of life itself to ensure you had everything you could ever need?

So, you stayed.

Even before Suguru became part of the equation, you stayed. You even stayed when Satoru would come home in the dead of night, his footsteps a faint echo through the silent halls before his hands found you. You’d stir from your sleep as he pulled your panties down with barely a word, his breath hot against your neck.

There was no tenderness in those moments, no love—just need. A raw, consuming need he claimed you had to fulfill. And you let him, didn’t you? You let him push inside you with barely any preparation, your body yielding to him because he knew it so well.

Satoru knew the places that made you crumble, the spots where your body quivered, the way your breath hitched when his fingers grazed just right. He knew you better than you knew yourself, didn’t he? His movements were deliberate, practiced, the wet noises filling the room a cruel testament to how thoroughly he’d mastered you.

You’d given him permission. He reminded you of that often, didn’t he? That you’d said yes. That he worked so hard, carried so much, and that this was his right. That he had needs only you could meet.

And you understood. You always understood.

After all, he was the strongest, wasn’t he?

So, you let him use you.

Like a doll.

You’d lay there, staring at the ceiling, as he buried himself to the hilt one last time, his loud groans of release cutting through the stillness. A pathetic little whimper followed, muffled by the darkness, as he spilled himself inside you. And then, as if the act meant nothing, he pressed a sweet kiss to your temple, murmured something soft and indistinct, and rolled over to his side of the bed.

You stayed there, silent and unmoving, the lingering heat of his body beside you doing nothing to warm the cold ache between your thighs.

That’s when the thought would creep in. A sick, unwelcome whisper:

You didn’t even climax.

You hated yourself for thinking it. For letting it matter.

But still, you stayed.

Was it fear that held you there? Or was it hope—a desperate, foolish hope that one-day things would change? That one day, every day would feel like those rare, sweet moments when he pressed teasing kisses against your lips before dragging you out to get sweets. That he’d touch you with love, with the tenderness he so effortlessly showed to others—when he wasn’t breaking them apart piece by piece with that same teasing grin.

And now, looking back, you can’t decide what’s worse: that you didn’t leave when you had the chance…

Or that part of you still doesn’t want to.

You stayed, even when the small arguments started. The little spats about wanting him to open up more, to share pieces of his life with you, the pieces he always kept hidden. Perhaps it was selfish—maybe even naïve—but you wanted to know why he loved you.

Really, truly loved you.

But you never asked.

You saved that question, tucking it away deep into your heart, right alongside the cracks that had already started forming. You told yourself it wasn’t the right time. That maybe he wasn’t ready. That you shouldn’t push. Instead, you focused on the good times, clinging to them like lifelines.

Because they were good, weren’t they?

What other guy would give you the world like Satoru did? What other guy would bring you flowers every week—a different color each time, sometimes traditional, sometimes exotic, but always beautiful? What other guy would shower you with affection so openly, so shamelessly, pressing kisses to your skin, nuzzling into the crook of your neck as though you were the only thing keeping him grounded?

Satoru had told you he loved you. And maybe he did—in a way that wasn’t entirely built on desire, the need to keep you within his grasp, or the insatiable craving to hold you close for the rest of your days.

That’s what you told yourself, anyway.

That’s why you stayed.

Even when Suguru came into the picture—when those dark, calculating eyes lingered on you just a moment too long when his quiet, honeyed words wove themselves into your life like threads binding you to a tapestry you couldn’t escape—you stayed.

You had the choice, didn’t you? You could have said no. You could have walked away.

But you didn’t.

You stayed, and now there was no one else to blame.

So, truly, it is all your fault.

However, your heart’s at fault too, isn’t it? For leaning into Suguru's touches, craving his warmth, even when you knew deep down that he was a cruel and awful man. A man who veiled his darkness in sweetness, wrapping it in gentle words and tender caresses that made you doubt your own truths. He was a master of contradiction—soft hands and sharp edges, honeyed lies hiding an iron grip.

You could have left.

You could have said no to the whole relationship, shut the door before it ever opened.

But you didn’t.

You stayed.

You told yourself that maybe this was the best you could hope for, the best kind of love someone like you deserved. Because it was love, wasn’t it? They loved you. Even if it was conditional. Even if you had to give and give, piece after piece of yourself, just to receive a sliver in return.

Love comes in many forms, after all. And this was love.

Or so you continued to convince yourself.

This is what you deserve. That you should have listened to your gut, back when every touch felt too heavy, too lingering, too much. Back when their words seemed to wrap around you like chains instead of promises. You should have left before the walls around you closed in. Before you realized that leaving wasn’t just difficult—it was dangerous.

You had your chances, didn’t you? If only you’d taken them.

You knew Satoru would tear the world apart to find you if you ran. He’d find you, no matter where you went, no matter how far. But… would he really?

If you’d left early enough, maybe it wouldn’t have been like this. Maybe it would have been nothing more than a bad breakup, a lesson in heartbreak you’d recover from in time. Maybe, if you’d left after Suguru’s return, Satoru would have leaned on him instead of spiraling further into obsession.

But you didn’t leave.

You stayed.

Such a stupid, stupid girl.

And yet…

It was never just about them, was it?

Because you craved love too, just as much as they did. You wanted it desperately—so much that you ignored the warnings in your heart, the creeping dread in your chest. You wanted to be loved, to feel wanted, to belong to someone in a way that was absolute, undeniable, and unshakable.

And that’s exactly what they gave you.

But love like that—it came with a cost.

And you paid for it in silence, in submission, in the pieces of yourself you’d never get back.

So now, here you are, locked away in the beautiful Gojo estate. A place so grand it should feel like a palace, yet it suffocates you like a gilded cage. Every corner gleams with wealth and power, every surface reflects the life you’re supposed to be grateful for.

The maids don’t meet your eyes.

To them, you aren’t Satoru’s wife. You aren’t a partner. You’re something lesser.

A pet.

Because you aren’t the one ensuring the estate runs smoothly while Satoru is away on his endless missions. That responsibility doesn’t fall to you—it belongs to Suguru, doesn’t it? He’s the one in charge. He holds the reins, commanding the household with a quiet authority that leaves no room for question.

And you?

You remain.

The pet. The wife. The child-bearer.

Barefoot and pregnant, with a swollen belly to show for it, you shuffle through the estate like a ghost. Your body aches, weighed down not just by the child growing inside you, but by the chains of a life you can’t escape.

Suguru sees to it that the estate runs like a well-oiled machine, all while maintaining his title as the second strongest. His responsibilities never seem to tire him, never seem to dull his devotion. If anything, they only make him more overbearing.

He adores pampering you.

He drapes you in the softest blankets, ensuring you’re always warm. He dresses you in the finest clothes, silks and satins that cling to your growing belly, showcasing the proof of your usefulness. He loves the way your independence has been stripped away, loves the way you’ve been forced to rely on him for everything.

When did you become so dependent?

When did you start accepting his affection like a loyal dog, start leaning into the way his rough, calloused hands would trace the curve of your stomach? When did you start craving the way he’d gaze up at you with that lovesick smile, his voice low and honeyed as he murmured sweet words about the future?

“I hope the baby looks like Satoru,” he’d say, his eyes dark and soft as they met yours. Then, after a pause, “I hope it’s a girl.”

The words always made your chest tighten, made your stomach twist.

You know he must miss the twins.

It’s not just the weight of their absence—it’s the way he’s filled that void with this child, this unborn life. You can see it in the way he touches you, the way he watches you. He’s more excited about this pregnancy than you are.

And that’s the cruelest part, isn’t it?

Because to him, this isn’t just a child. It’s a legacy. A purpose.

To you?

It’s another chain.

And yet, you hate how loving he is. How he’s always there to hold your hair back when you’re bent over, heaving in the dead of night. How his large, warm hands find every knot in your aching limbs, massaging away the tension with a tenderness that makes your heartache.

It’s cruel, how gentle he can be. How he disarms you with care just when you think you might muster the strength to fight back.

There’s a constant mantra in your mind, a desperate hope that the baby won’t resemble either of them.

Because the thought of seeing their features reflected back at you stirs a fear too heavy to bear.

The thought of seeing their features reflected in those tiny, innocent eyes is terrifying. It brings the fear that every decision will feel like a mistake, that allowing any of this to happen will become an unbearable regret.

You tell yourself you hope, but it’s hard to ignore the possibility, isn’t it?

What if the child inherits Satoru’s piercing blue eyes—so crystalline they seem otherworldly, glowing even in the faintest light? The same eyes that burn and freeze you all at once, stripping you bare and exposing every secret, every hidden part of you.

Even his grin—boyish, sharp, too wide—lingers in your mind. A grin that could charm and cut in the same breath, leaving you unsure whether to lean closer or step away. What if that grin appeared on a smaller, softer face, just as devastating?

Or worse—what if the baby inherits Suguru’s gaze?

Those dark, soulful eyes that pull you in like the tide, gentle at first glance, inviting even, but hiding endless, churning storms beneath their surface. Eyes that promise escape is not an option. Unlike Satoru’s, Suguru’s smiles are quieter, softer—but no less dangerous. His smiles feel deliberate, like they’re slipping past every defense you didn’t even know you had.

Would the baby inherit Satoru’s arrogance? Suguru’s patience?

Or worse—would the child inherit both of their possessiveness?

The thought makes your skin crawl.

But the fear doesn’t end there.

Because it’s not just about the baby, is it?

It’s about you.

About how they’ve already carved themselves so deeply into your soul that you can’t even imagine a world without them. You hate that truth. Hate the way it festers inside you, a bitter root growing into every part of you.

You hate Satoru’s smirk when he strides into the estate after a mission, brushing off the exhaustion and blood as if it’s nothing. How he towers over you, his white hair catching the light in a way that seems almost ethereal, his fingers tilting your chin up with a mock tenderness that makes your breath catch.

You hate how he always knows exactly what to say to make you crumble, his voice dipping into that teasing lilt that makes your heart flutter in spite of yourself.

And Suguru—oh, you hate how he lingers. How his touch lingers. His hands are always warm, always deliberate, tracing paths across your skin as if he’s claiming you, piece by piece. Every stroke of his fingers feels like a silent reminder that you are his, that you belong to him. His voice, low and soothing, is a cruel contradiction—a balm against your nerves, even when his words are laced with quiet threats you pretend not to hear.

You hate them.

You hate the way they consume you, the way they’ve woven themselves into the fabric of your life so tightly that even your thoughts feel tangled in their presence.

And yet, as you sit in the vast, lonely expanse of the Gojo estate, the weight of your belly grounding you, you know the truth.

You’re not just afraid of the baby looking like them.

You’re afraid of what that child will mean.

Because if they look like Satoru, with his arrogance, his fire, his brilliance, how will you deny the pride swelling in your chest? How will you stop yourself from feeling that flicker of awe, even when you know you shouldn’t?

And if they look like Suguru, with his quiet strength, his steadfast devotion, how will you deny the love? How will you stop yourself from melting beneath those familiar eyes, from imagining them crinkling with joy or softening with affection?

You can’t.

And that's horrifying.

You won’t be able to ignore how Satoru has changed, how he’s become softer, more attentive in ways that make it harder to hold onto your resentment. How he lingers closer to you than he ever did before, as if the mere distance between you might undo something fragile inside him.

How he’s started resting his head in your lap as you sit together in the serene gardens, his white hair catching the sunlight like spun silk, almost ethereal. His long lashes cast soft shadows over his cheeks as his half-lidded gaze flickers up to meet yours, brimming with a tenderness you don’t know how to process.

He murmurs lazy words of affection, his voice low and warm, the kind of sweetness that drips like honey and sticks to your skin. His fingers trace absentminded circles on your thighs, soft patterns that feel far too intimate, far too easy.

And you hate how much you crave it.

You hate the way his presence soothes something raw inside you, even when you tell yourself it shouldn’t.

You hate how he’s begun helping you with the small, intimate things you wish you could keep to yourself. Like the unbearable ache in your swollen breasts, the pressure building so much it leaves you trembling, whimpering in pain. How he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even ask.

The way Satoru's lips wrap around you with loud, deliberate suckles, the sound echoing in the quiet as he eases the pressure with almost clinical precision. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t falter. His hands grip your hips to steady you, his thumbs pressing reassuring circles into your skin.

You hate the sound.

You hate the warmth of his breath against your skin, the way it prickles, a constant reminder of just how close he always is—too close.

When he’s finished, he pulls back with a satisfied hum, his lips brushing against your collarbone with a lingering kiss. His voice low, almost tender, as he murmurs, “I love this version of you.”

The words settle into you like stones. His lips, still soft from the milk, press against yours, and the faint sweetness lingers, almost cloying. Satoru murmurs more words—gentle, saccharine things that would feel kind if not for the way his hands start to roam as they wrap around your waist.

“How nurturing you’ve become,” he whispers, his tone carrying a dangerous sort of reverence.

That’s what he loves. That’s what he says.

And the way he looks at you when he says it—those bright blue eyes glinting with something dark, something that sinks its claws into you—makes your skin crawl. Because you know exactly what he means.

He doesn’t love the nurturing in and of itself. He loves how it ties you to him. How it binds you to this role, this life, this carefully constructed world where you are his and only his.

The version of you he loves is one that has no room for defiance, no space for resistance—only the space to give, to sacrifice, to bend under the weight of his love.

And that’s what makes it so much worse.

Because even as you hate it, even as your stomach churns and your skin prickles, there’s a part of you that leans into his touch. A part of you that longs for the softness, for the fleeting moments when it feels like love instead of control.

And you hate yourself for that, too

Because you know how it goes. You’ve seen it now. Lived it.

How one pregnancy ends and another begins.

The cycle repeated itself after your firstborn, didn’t it? Barely a year after you gave birth, they had you pregnant again. You didn’t even have time to recover, to heal, before they decided it was time for another.

But they love you, don’t they?

Satoru’s affection is impossible to miss—the way he grins at you, almost childlike, as he cups your face with hands that can destroy worlds but hold you as though you’re the most delicate thing he’s ever touched. How he showers you with gifts, flowers in every shade imaginable, rare treasures that sparkle as brightly as his endless energy.

How many times has he told you, in his low, teasing voice, “You’re my world, you know that? I could do anything, have anything—but none of it would matter without you.”

It sounds like love, doesn’t it?

And Suguru—Suguru loves you too, in his quiet, steady way. You see it in the way he watches you, his dark eyes softening when you enter the room, the weight of his gaze feels suffocating. He’s the one who stays calm when you cry, wrapping his arms around you and murmuring, “Shh, it’s okay. I’m here. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

And you believe him, don’t you?

They love you. That’s why they insist on keeping you close. Why Satoru kisses your forehead every morning, why Suguru runs his fingers through your hair as he whispers sweet nothings you’re too exhausted to resist. That’s why they ensure you’re taken care of, why they never let you lift a finger, why they promise they’ll always protect you.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Satoru once said, kissing your swollen belly as he grinned up at you. “Just stay here with us. That’s all we need.”

“It’s not just for us,” Suguru added, his voice softer, more measured. “It’s for you too. We want you to feel safe. Loved.”

And in moments like that, when the weight of their words settles in your chest like a lullaby, you almost believe them.

You tell yourself that no one else would love you this much. No one else would care for you so completely, so unconditionally—because this is love, isn’t it?

The maids barely acknowledged your struggles. Their gazes were cold, dismissive, even as your body ached and your mind screamed for reprieve. They would gently pry your child from your arms with hushed whispers.

“You need more rest,” they’d say, their voices soft but unyielding. “We’ll take care of them. Don’t worry.”

And what could you do? You’d watch helplessly as they carried your baby away, leaving you empty-handed, empty-hearted. As if you were nothing more than a vessel, an incubator meant to bear and birth heirs for the Gojo family.

Your firstborn was a boy.

A son.

An heir.

He looked just like Satoru.

Those piercing blue eyes stared back at you from his tiny, cherubic face, wide and curious, already holding a glint of brilliance and confidence you couldn’t deny. His hair was the same stark white, impossibly soft beneath your trembling fingers as you brushed it back, memorizing every perfect strand. Even the little smirk he gave in his sleep mirrored Satoru’s—a playful, almost mocking curl at the corners of his mouth that made your heart ache with emotions you couldn’t unravel.

You loved him.

You hated that you loved him.

And when Suguru would cradle him in his arms, his dark eyes soft and filled with a devotion that seemed to crack the carefully constructed walls around your heart, you couldn’t deny the warmth blooming in your chest. He’d whisper promises to the child—vows of protection and guidance.

When Satoru would swoop in, effortlessly spinning the boy around with an energy that filled the room with light, the sound of your son’s uncontrollable laughter echoing like music, that warmth would return. It would swell in your chest, suffocating and undeniable, a cruel reminder of the chains you wore willingly and unwillingly all at once.

This is what they wanted, wasn’t it?

This is what they’d planned all along.

And now, with another child growing inside you, you realize something that terrifies you more than anything else.

You’re not sure if you stayed because you had no choice.

Or because you wanted to.

Again, it’s all your fault.

For trying to run, again.

For thinking, just for a moment, that you could escape them.

You were far too pregnant. Belly too far swollen, body heavy and slow, every step a reminder of how deeply tethered you were to this vast estate. But the thought wouldn’t leave your mind. The desperate hope of freedom burned too brightly, too wildly, even as your body betrayed you.

Even as you were dragged back to that sickening place, back to the people that you convinced yourself—desperately, foolishly—that this was love.

You’d screamed at Suguru, the words spilling out like a torrent you couldn’t stop. You told him the child was yours too, that you had the right to hold them, to sleep in the same room, to be more than a vessel. Your voice cracked, raw with frustration and desperation, as you hurled your defiance at him.

You remember the way his gaze darkened.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t snap. That wasn’t Suguru’s way.

Instead, he stepped closer, his movements slow, calculated, as though he were approaching a frightened animal. He tilted his head, his expression calm, disarming, the warmth in his dark eyes a stark contrast to the undercurrent of control they held.

“You’re upset,” he murmured, his voice soft, soothing. His hand reached out to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears streaking your face. “And that’s okay. You’ve been through so much, haven’t you?”

The quiet warmth in Suguru's voice made it hard to breathe, made the frustration clawing at your throat turn to something else—something like shame.

“You need to calm down,” he continued, a warm calloused hand slipping down to cradle the side of your neck, his thumb pressing lightly against your pulse. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself. I don’t want you to hurt us.”

His words lingered, heavy with meaning, as he pulled you closer, his forehead pressing against yours.

“I know it’s hard,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. “But I love you. We love you. Everything we do—everything I do—is for you.”

You wanted to push him away, to scream that it wasn’t love, that this wasn’t love. But as his arms wrapped around you, strong and unyielding, pulling you into his embrace as though Suguru could shield you from the very world they had trapped you in.

“You’re everything to me,” he murmured, soft lips brushing your temple. “Don’t you see that? You don’t need to run. You don’t need to be afraid. I’ll take care of you. I’ll always take care of you.”

A voice that was so tender, so achingly sincere, that it almost broke you. Suguru's words were enough to extinguish the fire of defiance burning in your chest, to leave you standing there, trembling and helpless in his arms.

The maids saw it, didn’t they? They whispered about you, their quiet voices slipping through the halls like ghosts. They called you ungrateful. Sick. They said you didn’t understand how fortunate you were.

“You should be enjoying this,” they murmured, their words laced with thinly veiled judgment. “No responsibilities, no struggles. A carefree life. Everything is taken care of for you. What more could you want?”

What more could you want?

No choices.

That’s what they meant, wasn’t it? No choices. No freedom. No you.

Was something wrong with you? Maybe.

Maybe there was something wrong with wanting more. For wanting to feel like a person again, instead of a vessel, a doll, a beautifully dressed incubator meant to carry their legacy.

It really is all your fault, isn’t it?

Because when labor came, it dragged you into hell.

Thirty-three grueling hours. Each contraction ripped through your body like a punishment, an unrelenting reminder of every fleeting thought of rebellion, of every moment you dared to imagine a life beyond them.

The emergency c-section was chaos—a flurry of hands, sterile lights, and voices rising above the incessant ringing in your ears. You were losing too much blood. Fever scorched your skin, your body trembling as the edges of the world blurred, your thoughts slipping between consciousness and darkness.

You couldn’t make sense of what was happening. You weren’t even sure whose tears streaked your skin as they fell—were they yours? Satoru’s? Suguru’s?

You didn’t know.

You didn’t know what happened after that.

All you remember are the words.

Suguru’s voice, low and steady, cutting through the haze. He leaned close, his hand resting on your clammy cheek with an almost painful tenderness. His dark eyes bore into yours, soft yet heavy with something that made your stomach twist.

“You shouldn’t have run,” he whispered. His tone was calm, soothing even, but the edge beneath it was sharp enough to draw blood. “Look at what you’ve done to yourself. You should’ve listened.”

And for a long time, you didn’t have the strength to argue.

The days that followed blurred together. Feeling like a ghost in your body, too weak to move, too tired to speak. Satoru and Suguru hovered, their gazes flickering between concern and something you couldn't quite place. The maids continued to whisper on with their rumors, their eyes darting to you with pity or disdain, as though you’d done this to yourself.

In their eyes, you were lucky.

Lucky to have survived. Lucky to have them.

And lucky, in their eyes, to not have another pregnancy until your first two boys turned five.

Five years of peace. Or something that resembled it.

Five years of watching your sons grow, of hearing their first words, of feeling their small, warm arms wrap around you as they giggled into into your neck. Five years where it was almost believable that this was normal, where you could almost convince yourself this was love.

Because it did feel like love, didn’t it?

Until the day you overheard Suguru speaking to them.

His voice was hushed, but not hushed enough.

“Mommy is sick,” he said, tone calm and soothing like he was explaining a simple fact of life. “Sometimes she says things she doesn’t mean. Sometimes she gets confused. But that’s okay. We love her, don’t we?”

A pang sent through your chest, breath catching as you froze in the hallway. Those cruel words lies carved like knives, each one slicing deeper than the last.

He was planting seeds, wasn’t he?

Teaching them to see you the way he wanted them to see you. Fragile. Dependent. Broken.

However with fists clenched, nails pressing into palms with a sting sharp enough to ground the swirling emotions within. The urge to scream hovered at the edge, to cry and storm into the room, demanding explanations with the desperation of a cornered animal. Words burned on the tip of the tongue—protests that it wasn’t true, that sickness and confusion weren’t the chains binding this existence.

But what would they believe?

Suguru’s steady, patient voice, rich and even, always laced with quiet authority? The father whose dark eyes always seemed to understand everything, who carried himself with calm, unshakable control, even when his smiles didn’t quite reach his eyes?

Or you?

The mother who had tried to run, who had collapsed and bled and screamed, who had been scolded for her defiance. The one they saw as weak, frail, and ungrateful.

You wanted to run again. The thought burned in the back of your mind, relentless and wild.

But you didn’t.

You stayed.

Because, in the end, what choice did you really have?

But by the time your third child—a sweet boy who looked like a perfect blend of you and Suguru—turned three, the illusion of peace began to crack.

Suguru was already leaning close, his voice soft and coaxing as he murmured into your ear, “I think it’s time we try for a girl.”

Satoru, of course, was on board almost immediately.

After all, your third child was different. A nonsorcerer, just like you, showing none of the abilities your first two boys possessed. Those two had cried in the dead of night, their small voices trembling with fear as they described the horrors only they could see—things you couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

But that wasn’t why your husbands looked at Kiyoshi with quiet disapproval.

It wasn’t his lack of cursed energy that made them see him as an anomaly.

It was his heart.

From the moment Kiyoshi was placed in your arms, red-faced and wailing, he clung to you with a desperation that never faded. He didn’t want the maids to hold him, didn’t toddle after Suguru’s composed steps or reached for Satoru’s strong arms. He wanted you. Always you.

He was a mama’s boy through and through, and that was love.

A love so pure it felt like a lifeline in the suffocating world you’d been forced into.

While you loved your first two boys deeply—how could you not?—there was always a distance there, a reflection of the walls your husbands had built around you. The first two cuddled into your lap, their small hands clutching yours as they whispered things that broke you.

“Mommy, we want you to get better.” “We don’t like it when you yell at Daddy to let you leave.”

They were too young to understand, too innocent to see the chains tightening around you.

But Kiyoshi understood, in his own way. Even as a toddler, he refused to leave your side, refused to let the maids or his fathers pull him from your arms. He was always on your hip, his little hand clutching your clothes, his head resting against your chest.

“Kiyoshi,” Satoru had said once, his tone laced with false amusement, “means ‘pure sadness.’ Don’t you think that’s fitting?”

He smiled as if it were a joke, but you could hear the bitterness beneath it.

And maybe it was fitting.

Because Kiyoshi only stopped wailing when he was in your arms, as if he already knew the world outside of you was too cruel, too cold.

By the time he turned three, Kiyoshi would toddle after you in the gardens, small, sturdy legs working hard to keep up. His face—a blend of Suguru’s gentleness and your warmth—would brighten with the purest smile. When his eyes crinkled at the corners, just like yours, you couldn’t help but feel your heart swell.

“Look, Mommy!” he’d say, holding up a flower he’d plucked from the garden, his tiny fingers dirt-stained and clumsy. “For you!”

You’d crouch down, brushing his dark hair back as you took the flower, your voice soft and tender in a way you hadn’t heard in years.

“Thank you, my sweet boy.”

And for a moment, it felt like it was just the two of you.

Like you could breathe again.

But you knew better.

As the sound of approaching footsteps always shattered moments like these. Heavy and far too familiar. You didn’t need to turn around to know it was Suguru.

His softspoken voice broke the fragile silence, calm and even, as always. “Kiyoshi,” he said, warm and affectionate, though laced with something you couldn’t quite name. “You’ve been keeping your mother all to yourself again, haven’t you?”

Kiyoshi stiffened at your side, the little hand tightening its grip on your kimono as he glanced nervously toward Suguru.

Suguru stepped closer and crouched down to Kiyoshi’s level, dark eyes softening as they met his son’s. “Come here, son,” he murmured, holding out a hand. His tone was gentle, coaxing, but there was an unspoken expectation beneath it. “Let Daddy hold you for a little while. I’ve missed you.”

But Kiyoshi didn’t move. His small fingers curled tighter into the fabric of your kimono, his face pressing into your side as though trying to make himself small, invisible.

Suguru’s gaze flicked to you, lips curling into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “So shy,” he said softly, his voice carrying a note of amused affection. “But you don’t have to be, Kiyoshi. Daddy just wants to hold you. You know that, don’t you?”

You felt your heart clench, torn between the instinct to shield him and the weight of Suguru’s presence. The tenderness in his tone, in the way his hand remained outstretched, made it all the harder to breathe.

“Kiyoshi,” Suguru said again, his voice dipping into a firmer edge, calm but unyielding. “Come.”

Reluctantly, your little boy let go of you, his steps slow and hesitant as he moved toward his father. Suguru’s smile widened, soft and reassuring, as he scooped Kiyoshi up effortlessly, cradling him with a gentleness that felt too deliberate, too controlled.

“There’s my good boy,” he murmured, brushing Kiyoshi’s hair back with careful fingers. His touch lingered, as though committing the texture to memory. “You love your mommy very much, don’t you?”

Kiyoshi nodded silently, his small face burying itself in Suguru’s shoulder.

Suguru’s gaze lifted to meet yours, a gentle smile, his tone almost playful. “You’ve spoiled him,” he said, a note of amusement threading through his words. “He’s too attached.”

You opened your mouth to respond, to say something, but the words caught in your throat.

What could you say?

That you were the only warmth in a world that terrified him? That his attachment wasn’t a flaw, but a desperate grasp at something safe?

Satoru appeared not long after, his presence impossible to ignore as he strolled into the garden, hands in his pockets and a grin that seemed too bright for the moment. His eyes, however, betrayed something softer—something that lingered only when they landed on you.

“Kiyoshi giving you trouble again?” Satoru's voice came out light, tinged with curiosity.

“No trouble,” Suguru replied smoothly, a hand still resting on Kiyoshi’s small back. “Just a little too fond of his mother.”

Satoru chuckled, shaking his head as he moved closer. His cerulean gaze flicked briefly to Kiyoshi before returning to you, that playful grin softening as he moved to brush a kiss against your temple. “Well, can you blame him?” he murmured, his voice low, meant only for you. “You’re hard not to love.”

The warmth of his affection made your heart twist, and your stomach flutter. For a moment, it was easy to forget the way his words often carried double meanings, easy to believe he was simply being sweet.

He straightened, turning his attention back to Suguru with a teasing smile. “But we’ll fix that soon enough, won’t we?”

They didn’t mean to hurt him, you told yourself. They wouldn’t.

But you knew better.

Because Kiyoshi was different. He didn’t fit into their world the way your first two boys did. And in their eyes, difference was something to be controlled.

For now, they let him cling to you. They let him toddle after you in the garden, offering flowers and dirt-streaked smiles that made your heart ache with both love and dread. For now, they allowed him to stay close, to hold onto the warmth you gave him, to believe he was safe in your arms.

But you knew it was only a matter of time.

Because your sons didn’t belong to you. Not really. They never had.

And no matter how much you wanted to shield Kiyoshi, no matter how fiercely you loved him, you knew one simple, devastating truth:

They’d let you have this for now.

But they would take him, too.

Because, after all, it’s all your fault.

For fleeing in the middle of the night.

The day was supposed to be perfect—a rare moment where Satoru and Suguru had taken the older two boys to the school, their voices filled with excitement as they promised to teach them more about the world they were destined to inherit. Your sweet boys kissed you goodbye with a tenderness that felt almost cruel, leaving you behind with Kiyoshi in the quiet, sprawling estate.

You had been on your best behavior. Smiling more, laughing when Satoru teased you, letting Suguru hold you a little longer than usual. You’d made them believe you were finally settling, finally accepting your role in their carefully constructed world.

And it worked.

So when the sun set and the house fell silent, you made your move.

You bundled Kiyoshi up in the softest blanket you could find, the small body warm and sleepy against your chest. He stirred only slightly as you slipped out of the estate, his tiny hands clutching onto your clothes.

He didn’t cry.

He didn’t make a sound.

It was as if he understood. As if even at three years old, he knew that silence was the only thing keeping you safe.

He nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, his soft breaths warm against your skin, and you couldn’t help the tears that welled up in your eyes.

The highway stretched out before you, an endless black ribbon under the faint glow of the moon. The lights of the city sparkled in the distance, a beacon of hope, a promise of sanctuary.

You walked for miles, the cold night air biting at your skin, legs aching with every step. But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Not with the faint echoes of paranoia whispering at the back of your mind.

Were they already looking for you? Did Satoru sense you slipping away even from miles away? Did Suguru wake in the middle of the night with the suffocating weight of intuition, already calling for their forces to track you down?

You didn’t know.

And you didn’t care.

The city limits were closer now, the glow of neon lights growing brighter, sharper. The faint hum of life and sound buzzed in the distance.

Kiyoshi stirred in your arms, his little head lifting just enough to peek out at the world around him. His dark eyes, so much like Suguru’s but filled with an innocence his father could no longer claim, glanced up at you with quiet curiosity.

“Mommy,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the soft hum of the wind.

You pressed a kiss to his forehead, your tears wetting his soft hair. “We’re almost there, my sweet boy,” you murmured, your voice trembling under the weight of hope and fear. “Just a little farther.”

Sanctuary was so close you could taste it.

But it’s all your fault, isn’t it?

Born a nonsorcerer.

Blind to the horrors that lurk unseen. Powerless to fight them off. Too weak to keep that sweet little boy safe.

You always imagined curses as massive, grotesque creatures—monsters so obvious that the very air would change in their presence. That the world would stop, that everything would smell of death and decay as they loomed closer.

But when a curse appears, nothing changes.

There’s no warning. No shift in the wind.

The only thing you feel is the sudden weight of your child going limp in your arms.

And then the blood.

And then the blood.

It coats the ground—dark and endless, pooling around your knees and seeping into the cracks of the earth. Sticky and warm, it clings to trembling hands, staining your kimono, your skin, your very soul.

You can’t move. Can’t breathe.

Your little boy—your Kiyoshi—lies limp in your arms, his small body growing colder with every agonizing second. Tiny fingers, once so eager to cling to you, now dangle lifelessly. His dark lashes rest softly against pale cheeks, unmoving.

He looks like he’s sleeping.

You tell yourself that, over and over, as if saying it enough times will somehow make it true. Shaking hands brush back his dark hair, trembling as you whisper his name. Softly at first, then louder, your voice splintering with every syllable.

“Kiyoshi… wake up, baby. Please.”

But nothing changes.

The world around you feels wrong—too quiet, too still. The city lights in the distance mock you, their glow a cruel reminder of the sanctuary you’d been so close to reaching. You’d promised him, hadn’t you? Promised that everything would be okay. That you’d make it there. That you’d keep him safe.

You lied.

“Kiyoshi,” you choke out again, pressing a desperate kiss to his cooling forehead. Hot tears streak down your face, wetting his soft hair as you clutch him tighter, as though you could anchor him to you—keep him here, with you.

A wail tears through the night, raw and broken, shattering the oppressive silence. The sound is unrecognizable, guttural and full of despair. It takes a moment before you realize it’s coming from you.

The blood stains everything—your hands, your clothes, the ground—but it’s the loss of his warmth that destroys you.

How did this happen?

Your mind races, replaying the moments in broken fragments. You’d been walking, your legs aching, his small body cradled against your chest. He’d been so quiet, so trusting, his head nuzzled into the crook of your neck.

You were almost there.

Then the air shifted—just slightly—a subtle wrongness you hadn’t noticed until it was too late.

You didn’t see it.

You didn’t even know it was there until his body jerked in your arms, a sharp, unnatural movement that stole his breath—and yours.

And then he went limp.

It doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense.

You rock him back and forth, tears falling freely, your voice hoarse as you beg him to wake up. Leaning to press your cheek against his, murmuring his name over and over, as if the sound alone could bring him back.

Because you failed him.

Because this is your fault.

Suguru’s arms wrap around you, their weight unbearable. His warmth presses against the chill of the night, suffocating in a way that makes the air harder to pull into your lungs. He cradles you like something precious, something fragile—like he cares, even as his words twist the knife deeper into your chest.

“We’ll take care of this, just like always,” he says, his voice soft, almost gentle. His lips brush against your hair, lingering, and the tenderness in the gesture makes your skin crawl. “You just need to stop fighting us. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

Satoru stood frozen, head bowed, white hair catching the faint glow of the city lights. Kiyoshi’s lifeless body was pressed tightly against him, his hands trembling ever so slightly as he held him close. For a moment, you thought you saw something crack in his expression—something raw, something human.

But it was gone just as quickly as it appeared.

When he finally turned his gaze to you, his blue eyes were as hollow as you’d ever seen them. “You shouldn’t have done this,” he said quietly, his voice devoid of its usual teasing lilt. “Why couldn’t you just stay?”

The question stabbed deeper than you thought possible, the shame and guilt coursing through you like poison.

Why couldn’t you just stay?

The image of Kiyoshi’s bright smile flashed, his tiny hands offering you flowers from the garden, his laugh ringing out like music in the suffocating silence of the estate. He’d been your light, your tether to something good.

And now he was gone.

Because of you.

You sagged further into Suguru’s hold, the fight draining out of you entirely. The tears wouldn’t stop, falling silently now, soaking into the front of Suguru’s shirt as he held you tighter.

“There, there,” he murmured, his hand stroking your hair in slow, deliberate motions. “That’s better. You don’t have to fight anymore. We’ll make it right.”

But there was no right in this.

The car waited nearby, its door open like an unspoken command. Suguru’s grip on you didn’t waver as he began guiding you toward it, his movements gentle but unrelenting. Satoru followed behind, cradling Kiyoshi’s small form like he was made of glass.

Your legs moved on instinct, numb and heavy, the metallic scent of blood lingering in the air.

The city lights grew fainter as the car doors shut behind you, locking you away from the world you’d been so close to reaching.

You told yourself you’d tried. That you’d done everything you could.

But deep down, you knew.

You’d never escape them.

And as Suguru’s fingers intertwined with yours, as Satoru’s empty gaze lingered on the horizon, you realized something that hollowed you out completely.

It wasn’t just that you had nothing left.

It was that you no longer cared to try.

It really was all your fault.

[4dbarbie-archive]

4dbarbie remix: Give up and Be Free

Hello! It's been a while since my last remix. I felt spontaneously inspired to make this based on my most favourite 4dbarbie asks. This one's a bit different as this time I got help from AI so they did a lot of the legwork and I made edits as I saw fit, it definitely cut down on the amount of time it takes to make a remix! I asked them to write it in a conversational tone like a friendly guru talking to me so some of the wording has been changed (which can sometimes be helpful in understanding the message in a new way) so it's not entirely 4dbarbie's words verbatim but the message remains the same (feel free to check out the source texts if you wish!). Hope you enjoy!

Edit: This is based on 4dbarbie's guide to a new identity but you can do it with I AM in mind instead (replacing paragraph 6) for self-realization

My highlight colour key: key concepts are in pink, action points in purple, really important points in red

Source texts: 1, 2, 3, 4 Recommended reading: 1, 2, 3, 4

Welcome, my friend. Let me guide you through something deeply transformative, yet so simple it might surprise you. First and foremost, you need to get to a place within where the person you’re identified with no longer bothers you. As long as you fight it and try so hard & incessantly to change it, you're only giving it further reality. It’s not about force or willpower—it’s more of a surrender, or as I prefer to call it, a giving up. Yes, giving up. Because even if you're not happy about what you see, there is no way around it besides accepting it. Even if this feels like misery at first, accept it. Just sit with it. Only when you no longer fear things staying the same, when you cease caring, does true change begin.

You see, I didn’t fake being unaffected. I simply allowed things to happen to “me”. Painful, pleasant, it didn’t matter. I didn’t try to change anything. I let go of the exhausting loop of desire and fear, like finally putting down a heavy load. The emotions still came, but I didn’t involve myself with them. They didn’t interest me anymore, I became indifferent and neutral to whatever was happening. If I got what I wanted, fine. If I didn’t, fine again. Events passed by like clouds—leaving no imprint, no reverberation. In time, it was like they never existed at all.

And here’s the beautiful part—you’ll begin to toy with this idea: “What if none of this ever really existed in the way I thought?” It’s playful and not serious because you've stopped caring. You’ve stopped chasing “realization”, stopped chasing anything. There's no more trying, no more effort. You no longer want or need anything. And in place of needing nothing, you find something you never expected: power. Not power over things, but power in yourself, in your complete detachment from the world. When you reach this point, everything else becomes secondary.

So how do you walk this path? Start by giving up. Give up the idea that you can control anything. You can do nothing about life but cease caring and let it happen. Do not try to understand anymore; simply be. Let everything be as it is. Let life happen. After all, we all die one day, and it’ll all be over anyway. Why exhaust yourself worrying, fearing, striving or desiring? It’s like fighting an ocean tide—you’re just tiring yourself out. No matter what, you can't force life to give you what you want. Allow everything its being and leave it alone. Instead, step back and let the waves wash over you, let life happen as it happens. Life will flow as it will, and you no longer push or pull at it.

Expect nothing. Not from your body, not from your mind, not from the world. Let them be as they will. If life wants to beat you, just let it beat you. It’s like facing a bully—when you stop reacting, when you stop caring, they lose interest. Sure, maybe they’ll hit harder for a while, but you’ve already surrendered. What more can they do? The same goes for life—stop caring what happens and you’ll find it starts losing its power over you.

Now that you’ve freed yourself from expectations, give yourself everything. Live completely in the moment, forget about a past, don't think about a future. Be here, fully, now. All the good things you used to think about others, think about yourself. In each moment, ask yourself “What if there’s nothing outside of me? What would I think and feel right now?”. Let go of caring what life does with it, just do it. You’re not doing it for some future result; you’re doing it because it feels true to you; to be free and be exactly what you want to be in the moment. Whether tomorrow repeats itself or brings something new, so what? You no longer depend on anything external to feel fulfilled. You keep to yourself and continue thinking what you want, continue being who you want to be. If life follows along, let it. If it doesn’t, let it not. Hold steady to what feels right within you, and allow your thoughts to shape what's real to you.

Finally, remember to forget. The past? Gone. What you see before you? Just a shadow of what was. Now, here’s the key: Want nothing. Do nothing. Don’t chase, don’t seek—just let yourself be. This doesn’t mean you stop living or acting; it simply means you stop the endless striving, the relentless push to try make life bend to your will. Instead, just watch what happens. And most importantly, don’t attach any meaning to it. Be a witness, a quiet observer of the flow of life. Whatever happens, good or bad, is just passing through—you have nothing to do with it. It’s not permanent, nothing is. So why believe in it as though it were immovable? Cease caring and be free!

Let the world dance as it may, but you—remain still within. Watch as the transient nature of everything becomes clearer. You’ll see that the world outside is nothing more than a reflection of the thoughts you no longer hold, and that what you once took to be reality soon ceases to be when you take away your identification.

[starcurtain]

Patch 3.4 First Playthrough Thoughts

Going to watch a friend stream the game tomorrow, so I might come back to this and revise my opinions after a second look at the patch, but here are my current gripes reactions.

Everything below the read more is spoilers; you've been warned.

Time travel plots are so hard, so, so, so hard, and unfortunately I think this one was not the best done. The confusion of which cycle we're in at any given moment feels deliberate, but in creating that confusion, they just catapulted me out of the narrative actively as I had to sit back and ensure I understood exactly where each character was on the timeline at any given point, particularly with the XX05, XX06, XX07 endings. I'm still not sure I've fully grasped it all.

Jesus Christ, where was the budget? Did it literally all go to the animated short and they left none of it for regular cutscenes??? Why were critical moments like the "Lygus craves Destruction" and "Mem becomes Cyrene" scenes left to static images? The Lygus one was especially egregious because it was just him painted over static images we'd already seen in Unknowable Domain, ooofff. The fact that Phainon's "inner hero" was using the generic NPC model took me the fuck out and let's please not give them a free pass with something like "Phainon's mental image of a hero was generic because he didn't know what real heroism looked like." I'm not willing to let the devs slide with such a blatantly budget-cut choice.

Who has the memories of which cycles at which point in time and who had them but lost them and who regained them but only pieces and who should have them but doesn't anymore and how did any of these memory transfers other than Phainon's even work? Mem!Cyrene, I am looking at you. (Hoyo: Please just stop thinking so hard about everything. Nod and smile at us, please.)

The decision to continue using Phainon's regular model for the cutscenes versus the other heirs even after he supposedly became Flame Reaver was definitely a choice. Like, I understand that we're seeing this from Phainon's perspective and he's holding on to that humanity, but in choosing only iterations where Phainon was showing his face while attacking the heirs, it just creates complete confusion over when he started taking the Flame Reaver form and why and in how many loops he looked like that, versus just appearing as regular Phainon. Also, why the fuck were we robbed of a sick cutscene actually showing him transforming into the Flame Reaver for the first time?

Phainon fighting Zephyro? Cool. Phainon fighting Zephyro in an animated short only instead of also as an actual playable fight, in a patch that otherwise had no new boss and literally only recycled old boss models and mechanics? Abysmally bad planning. What the fuck were the devs thinking? Out of everything I wasn't happy with this patch, the fact that they couldn't even give Phainon a new in-game boss to showcase his gameplay against was absolutely the biggest fumble. Colossally bad decision-making on the dev team's part, tbh.

Phainon's theme song is beautiful and atmospheric and it works exactly as is needed, but the theme song of the animated short doesn't have anywhere near the earworm value that "Proi Proi" had, and "Proi Proi" playing over actual combat made it immensely more hype to experience in-game. Overall, the lack of actual playable content in this patch just meant that it never hit the gamer high that 3.3 was able to hit with Aquila's boss fight. Normally I'm the last person to complain about the ratio of cutscene+dialogue compared to actual gameplay, because I would still play the game if it was nothing but a visual novel, but in this case, I think the lack of interaction was a serious missed opportunity. The power of video games as a medium is in their ability to link players' actions to the narrative, and this patch missed the mark by sidelining the player too much, at least for my taste.

Weirdly enough, while sidelining the actual player behind the keyboard, the story's absolute insistence that Trailblazer Must Be the Hero(tm), while definitely not surprising, ended up being done in the most disappointing way possible. I fully expected us to be the hero to save the day, but at least in Penacony, etc., they managed to make it feel mostly organic. Here, there was such an on-the-nose: "You were the real Deliverer all along, Trailblazer!" that it feels painfully shoehorned. I understand that, from a logical standpoint, an outside element was needed to break the loop, but for what reason did we watch Phainon bear the pain of being the "Deliverer" 33 million times only to have the title casually handed off in a dialogue option? Couldn't we at least have gotten a touching cutscene where Trailblazer reveals that their method for breaking the loops is to shoulder half of Phainon's burden with him, dividing the "weight" of the memories? It's not that it's wrong for the Trailblazer to become "the Deliverer" alongside Phainon, but the way it was done was so, so bad...

I think what was missing was the "through-line"--the final message of Phainon and Cyrene's first loop should have been, from the start, that they knew they could only buy time, that they had sent out some prayer beyond the heavens, themselves calling for a "Deliverer"--we needed to see them send out that call into space, and then face the reality that "we" left the call unanswered for 33 million cycles. While Phainon was dragging himself through every cycle, killing the heirs over and over, we should have seen him comforting himself with that thought: "Someone will come save us. We only have to carry on until the Deliverer arrives." And then we players would have had to sit with the pain of failing him over and over and over... Then, and only then, could our "becoming the Deliverer" really feel like something we had earned by our guilt--"Thank you for your hard work all this time. You can rest now, Phainon. I'm here."

It's not that this patch had no emotional impact on me, because it did, but... Every truly emotional moment in this patch had a weird layer of "distance" to it that other moments of Star Rail's gameplay did not. Acheron's farewell made me bawl, and I'm not even a Honkai Impact 3rd player. Castorice's animated short blew my heart to smithereens. This patch just never quite hit the right note to really pound on my heartstrings. Yes, watching Phainon drag himself through actual agony and torment was bad, but it could have been so much worse. Why did we not get to see him and Cyrene as carefree kids first, to really hammer home the extent of their loss of innocence? Why did we not get to see Phainon's model literally breaking down under the pain of carrying millions of coreflames? Why did we never get to see him with the blood of his friends on his hands, dealing with that agony directly? Why did we not get at least a tiny moment of our!Phainon having to reckon with the realization that he was the black-robed swordsman he'd hated his whole life, and that he was the one who had been killing his own comrades? We got tears but nothing of the horror the devs should have let that moment have.

Similarly, because the person we were watching descend into Destruction wasn't actually our!Phainon the whole time, there's a one-layer removal on the emotional attachment--this isn't really the person who we've walked beside all this time. This is happening to someone else, and he's just going to pass the memories on. It carries a different--and unfortunately lighter--weight than if our!Phainon had been the one actually forced to do those things.

How does the plot even reckon with Cyrene anymore? If she was literally deleted from Amphoreus's Time itself, how was she also able to reloop each time and ultimately have a sliver of herself become Mem? For that matter, why did she not age even in the first loop? I'm sure they'll put some effort into addressing this stuff in the next patch, but currently it just feels like a bit of a hand-wavy plothole, and especially the bit about her not aging just seems like a bid to buy time to avoid revealing her playable model. (Don't think too hard, Star.)

Honestly there were so many weird hand-wavy moments in this patch. Phainon's "Wow, I almost forgot what the fairies looked like" as an explanation for why Phainon didn't notice that Mem looked like a fairy from Aedes Elysiae might have kind of made sense if only it wasn't confusingly followed with Cyrene going "Oh come now, you wouldn't ever forget them!" Like okay but he did???

I'm sorry but Lygus is just not carrying the whole supervillain thing. Like on the one hand, maybe the devs really did want that simple and straightforward of a villain? But on the other hand, the entire thing just feels also way too... on the nose. Would a Genius-level Erudition pathstrider/possibly emanator (if the new As I've Written is to be believed, whoever is running Amphoreus's actual experiment is at least disguising themself as a Genius Society member) really be that obvious and easy to predict? Maybe I'm thinking into this WAYYYY too much, but at the risk of sounding like a crazy conspiracy theorist, I'd like to revive an early prediction of mine that Lygus is actually an avatar for Nous THEMSELF, conducting the experiment using the Scepter as a deliberate way to either develop a resource needed to defeat Destruction or to determine Nanook's true purpose--to solve the equation of Destruction and determine if it is needed to win "the war of the aeons"--perhaps Destruction is what can save us from Finality?

You know what doesn't get a complaint from me? The ridiculous Phaidei feast they threw in for the shippers on the side. The dev team's determination in going out of their way to repeatedly insist that Mydei is Phainon's designated love interest is truly wild. I respect the hustle.

You know who else gets a pass with no complaints? Nanook. I can't wait until we're all crying about THEIR tragic backstory in 10.X or something.

You know who gets a third pass from me for this patch? Hyacine. Hands down best girl of Amphoreus; it's NOT EVEN A COMPETITION.

[gilbertscurls]

just friends (until we’re not) — matt sturniolo

TWO ── until we're not

part one

Matt had spent the past two days in absolute hell.

Ever since that almost-moment on Valentine’s Day, his mind had been an endless loop of what ifs and what now?

What if you felt the same way? What if you didn’t? What if he ruined everything? What if he didn’t do anything at all, and that was worse?

He had replayed that night over and over, the way you had leaned into him, the way your fingers had brushed, the way you had stiffened at that damn movie scene. And the way he had chickened out instead of saying something.

Matt wasn’t a coward. At least, he didn’t think he was. But when it came to you—when it came to this—it was different.

Because he couldn’t lose you.

Not just as his best friend, but as you. The person who knew him better than anyone. The person he called when something good or bad or stupid happened. The person he trusted with every piece of himself, even the ones he didn’t always like.

But now, he was standing in front of your apartment door, heart in his throat, palms sweating, and he had a choice.

He could walk away. Pretend nothing had changed. Pretend he wasn’t in love with you.

Or he could tell you the truth.

Matt took a deep breath, trying to steady the pounding of his heart.

The words were on the tip of his tongue, the confession ready to be spoken, to be heard.

But the fear was still there, gnawing at the back of his mind, whispering that he was going to lose you, that he was going to get hurt.

He fought it, the storm of emotions and thoughts, and in the end, the need, the love he felt for you won out.

So he knocked.

A few seconds later, the door swung open, and there you were. Barefoot, in one of those old, oversized sweatshirts you always stole from him, hair a little messy like you’d just woken up from a nap.

And you were staring at him like you knew.

Like you’d been waiting for this, too.

"Hey," you said, voice softer than usual.

"Hey," Matt echoed, hands clenched at his sides. He was so nervous. Which was stupid. It was you. But that was exactly why this mattered so much.

You stepped aside, letting him in, and he followed you to the couch. The same couch where everything had almost changed two nights ago.

You sat down, pulling your legs up beneath you, and he mirrored you without thinking.

"Okay," you said after a moment. "What’s going on?"

Matt huffed out a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair. "Wow. No small talk? No ‘how was your day?’"

"Matt," you said, giving him that look. The one that saw right through him. "Just tell me."

He swallowed hard. His heart was beating so fast he thought it might actually give out.

"You ever feel like you’re standing on the edge of something?" he asked, voice rougher than he intended. "Like… one wrong step and everything changes forever?"

Your brows pulled together. "Yeah," you admitted. "All the time."

Matt let out a shaky breath, nodding. "That’s where I’ve been. The past two days. Stuck on that edge."

You stayed quiet, watching him, waiting.

He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers before curling them into fists. "I was gonna keep pretending. I was gonna let it go, tell myself it didn’t matter."

"Matt—"

"But it does," he cut in, voice barely above a whisper. "It does matter. And I can’t— I won’t pretend anymore."

He finally met your eyes, and god, you were looking at him like you knew. Like maybe you’d always known.

"I love you," he said, and the words felt like ripping off a Band-Aid, terrifying and painful and freeing all at once.

Your breath hitched.

Matt kept going before he lost his nerve.

"I think I’ve loved you forever," he admitted, voice shaking now. "I just— I was scared. I am scared. Because you’re my best friend, and if I mess this up, if I lose you—"

"Matt."

His mouth snapped shut.

You were staring at him, eyes wide, something unreadable in your expression. He braced himself for the worst. For rejection. For awkwardness. For heartbreak.

Instead, you smiled.

It was small at first, hesitant, but then it grew, lighting up your whole face, and suddenly you were laughing.

Matt blinked. "What—"

"You idiot," you said, shaking your head, voice thick with something he couldn’t quite place. "You absolute idiot."

And then you were moving, shifting forward, and before Matt could process what was happening, your hands were in his hair, your lips were on his, and—

Oh.

Oh.

Everything clicked into place.

Matt barely had time to react before his body took over, arms wrapping around you, pulling you closer, kissing you back like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because maybe it was.

Maybe it had always been leading to this.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, you rested your forehead against his, fingers still tangled in his hair.

"I love you too, you idiot," you murmured.

Matt let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh. "Wait, seriously?"

You rolled your eyes but didn’t move away. "No, Matt, I just kissed you for fun."

He grinned, heart soaring. "You do that a lot?"

"Shut up," you muttered, but you were smiling too, and then you were kissing him again, and Matt swore he could actually hear the sound of everything falling into place.

So, yeah. Maybe he had been scared. Maybe he had spent too much time standing on the edge, overthinking, hesitating.

But none of that mattered now.

Because he had finally taken the leap.

And you were right there with him.

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash, @helpimateenagerinlove, @ghostlythinggoingaround, @sturmatt, @chris-hallelujah, @goingtojohnkramershouseee, @wurlibydominicfike, @straw8berry, @shadowthesim, @courta13, @frankdelreyy

[justsomerandomfanfic]

We Meet Again In Italy - Eggsy Unwin X Female Reader

Title: We Meet Again In Italy

Eggsy Unwin X Female Reader

Additional Characters: Reader's boss, Random character (Alexandra Winslet), Kingsman (Mentioned), and Harry Hart (Mentioned)

| Part 1 |

WC: 4,186

Warnings: Reader is mentioned wearing a dress/heels/makeup, enemies to lovers, banter, flirting, teasing, very brief mention on abuse, some italics, brief mention of crying, slight angst, and fluff

One word to describe Italy is 'breathtaking,' and that couldn't be more true than it was when you walked through the streets of Rome upon your first day there. Everything about Italy seemed so picturesque and beautiful. But you didn't have time to walk around and enjoy the scenery - no matter how much you would have loved to do so - you were on your mission. After the incident in the bookstore in New York, you were determined to get that file back from Eggsy.

"He's been spotted entering his hotel. Hotel Da Vinci." Your boss spoke to you over your earpiece as you sat in the middle of your large hotel bed. That was actually really nice; you might have to invest in a better mattress when you got home. "A message will come to you shortly with the information, along with the address to the gala he is going to be attending tonight."

Pausing, your hand hovering over your paperwork. "Gala?" You knew Eggsy loved to dance, but still. "Why is he going to a gala?" You asked, picking up the couple of pictures you had of Eggsy in various locations back from when you were tailing him in New York.

"He's meeting someone by the name of Alexandra Winslet. We doubt that is her real name, but that's all the information that we got on her."

"A name and a face is all I need." You spoke up, eyes flickering to your phone as a notification popped up. Picking up your phone from beside you on the bed, you unlock it before tapping your messages, slowly scanning the few pictures and documents that you were sent. Stopping at the picture of the supposed Alexandra Winslet, you hummed, tilting your head to the side. "Purple," You muttered, your eyes immediately going to her hair, which was short, cut to just below her chin; in a shade of violet purple. One thing was for sure, you'd have an easy time spotting her in a crowd. Scrolling further, you stopped at the picture of a mansion, surrounded by a fancy iron gate. "I am assuming that this mansion is where the gala is going to be held?"

You watched as the message bubbles popped up before you were sent the address, "Yes," Your boss then spoke, "It's a black-and-white event. Make sure to keep within the dress code. And get that file back. I don’t want any other issues to arise."

Shutting your phone off, you leaned back against the plush, satin headboard, "Sure thing, boss," You sighed, rubbing your forehead with a hand, you kept your hand there as you shut your eyes, "Is there anything else I need to know?"

"We’ll keep you updated." The line went dead.

Huffing, you opened your eyes, blinking as you checked your watch on your wrist. "Well," You muttered to yourself, clicking off your earpiece as you shuffled off the bed, trying not to crumple any of your paperwork and pictures as you did so. "Time to go shopping, I guess."

And so, you found yourself in Milan, which was the same city where the gala was going to be held. Milan was such a lovely place, full of rich, dazzling architecture, just like the rest of the country; it was also quite famous for fashion, especially among wealthy business people and high society alike. And before you knew it, your small shopping spree was finished. With two large bags looped on your arms, you made your way to your rental, and back to your hotel.

Entering your hotel room, you quickly shut the door, locking it before you sped to the bed and placed your bags down. They weren't hurting your arms with their weight, no, but it was what was inside that was important: your dress. Sliding out the white, paper box, you spied the brand name on the top lid, written in black, curvy font. Carefully, you pulled off the lid, feeling a small rush of adrenaline fill your system as you sat the lid to the side, your eyes zoned in on the black folded dress before you. 

Biting your lip, you tried to hide the large grin that was about to spread on your face as you gently took the fabric into your hands. Without a second thought, and seeing that you were right on time, you began to get ready for the gala.

It was around four once you finished getting ready, dressed to the nines and a hint of excitement ran through you. Staring at yourself in the full-length mirror near the bathroom, you turned every which way, your lips curled upward, feeling completely gorgeous. The dress was all-black, the sleeves were off-the-shoulder, the maxi skirt just brushed the floor, and it was made out of the softest velvet that you have ever felt in your entire life. Once you saw the dress on one of the mannequin models, you knew that you had to have it. Brushing your hands down the skirt, you gave yourself one last look; honestly loving the way your red, painted lips stood out amongst the black.

Turning to the bed, you pulled your message bag over, opened the flap, and pulled out a small, wooden rectangular box. You paused, eyes softening as you opened the box's lid, revealing a simple, gold necklace with a single pendant hanging from it. You smiled softly as you gazed at it, remembering the night that he had given it to you. Turning to the mirror once more, you carefully unclasped the necklace, sliding it around your neck before fastening the clasp behind your neck. As you stared at yourself, you started to wonder what he would think. Would he like it? You bit your lip as your fingers grazed over the gold surface, only to shake your head; you shouldn't be thinking like that. It shouldn't even matter what Eggsy thinks. This was a mission. This was your job, your life. You didn't have time for romance or flirtatious games. Not this time around.

Taking a deep breath, you forced yourself to turn away from the reflection and looked around your hotel room for your shoes. Finding the box of brand-new gold heels near the door of the bed, you picked up one of them and slipped it onto your foot before slipping on the other heel. Standing straight, you looked into your mirror again, fiddling with your hair before you felt your mind slipping back to him. Growing frustrated with yourself, you glared at your reflection.

"Get the file and leave." You spoke, voice stern, "Don't fall for his tricks again... You don't have time for it. You're on a mission, remember?" You muttered to yourself. You shook your head. You could hear his laughter in your ears, see that grin on his face, that glimmer in his eyes... You gritted your teeth. Closing your eyes tight, you inhaled sharply before opening them, pushing those thoughts away. Raising your hand, you turned on your earpiece with two soft taps, "Sir, I'm ready."

~~~

Pulling up to the mansion, you leaned over slightly to look at it through the front view window. You had done a bit of research on the large home before arriving. Villa Mondadori, an Art Nouveau building. Designed by architect Steno Sioli Legnani for the textile entrepreneur Pasquale Crespi in 1897, it consisted of fifteen bedrooms, fifteen bathrooms, various large lounges, and a spa area with a complete gym, cinema room, bar, and terraces. At the small tap on your passenger window, you snapped out of your daze, your eyes landing on what you assumed to be the valet parking attendant.

Stepping out of your car, you handed the valet the keys, giving the young man a polite smile and nod before looking up at the building as you walked up the three steps. The building was three stories, the first level's exterior was almost an ivory color, while the second and third levels were a sort of cream color. What you loved the most were the large windows, large enough to let in all the natural light. You tried to pay no mind to the two guards at the door, walking towards them, holding yourself high and confidently.

"Ciao," You gave them both a charming smile, hoping that either of them would just let you in, as you had planned.

The one guard to your left was tall, well past six feet, and with trimmed blonde hair that was combed to the side. The guard to your right was a bit shorter than his guard partner, though still taller than you, and was far less intimidating, but you took note of his piercing blue eyes and the way his black hair was buzzed close to the scalp. Both men stared at you, observing and analyzing you as their eyes narrowed and their mouths pursed. Before you could ask them if they were going to allow you entrance into the house, the guard on the left cleared his throat, "Buona sera," He said, his eyes slowly looking at you up and down.

You expertly hid your distaste as you replied politely, "Sì, buona sera." You glanced at each of them, expectantly, and finally, they moved aside, allowing you entry into the house. The hallway that led straight ahead was lined with doors, all decorated with lavish designs and intricate woodwork carved into the frames. There were paintings of beautiful landscapes hung along the walls, some of which were covered by black and white, silky drapes. Fit for the gala's theme, you admired it.

Following the live classical music that was echoing throughout the halls, you found yourself in the main room, watching as couples danced together in what you presumed was the living room they converted into a ball-like room. You took a moment to admire the room around you, eyeing the grand, crystal chandelier that hung down, and the large windows that surrounded the room. Taking another glance at your surroundings, your eyes landed on a bar lounge on the far right wall, admiring the beautifully detailed painted ceiling, depicting the Renaissance era. The room was lit up brightly, making the room feel warm and inviting, and you couldn't help but let a small sigh escape your lips; it really was quite beautiful, even though you weren't there to enjoy the party, you were here for that file. That you hoped to god Eggsy brought with him somehow.

Moving with a certain grace, you made your way to the bar, finding a nice place to stand and watch the couples dancing the night away to the live violin, cello, and piano concertos playing from a stage further away from where you were standing. It was a quick dance, the couples stepping closer together as they spun circles around the room; dresses fluttered around their legs. Their movements captivated you.

"What are you doing here?" A voice spoke up, and the corner of your lips lifted when you heard it. Leaning on the counter behind you, you rested your elbows against it as you turned your head to meet Eggsy's confused and astounded gaze.

"Can't a girl go out and have fun?" You asked, smiling coyly as you turned around the face the bar, Eggsy turned with you, his body facing you, his eyes staring at the side of your face; his expression turned from bewildered to something unknown.

As you signaled the bartender, Eggsy finally spoke up once more. "I wasn't aware that you were invited..." His tone lightened some.

"Neither was I." You responded simply as the bartender walked over to you. "Martini. Asciutto." You requested before looking back over at Eggsy coyly. "I sort of just... Invited myself." Smirking slightly, you waited patiently as the bartender prepared your drink. When the bartender was about to give you the drink, you took the drink. Turning to face Eggsy, you kept your eyes on his as you took a sip. You watched as his eyes followed the movement of your mouth, as he swallowed his own drink. Shrugging casually, you looked back up at Eggsy.

"Well now," Eggsy sat down his glass, "Let's not get straight to business. Isn't the view wonderful?" Your eyes roamed around the room, taking in the scenery before you turned your gaze back to the man beside you.

"Quite wonderful," You answered, "You clean up well, Eggsy." You teased, leaning forward slightly.

Eggsy's eyes flashed, a smirk forming across his lips, "You look stunning, as usual, love." His eyes scanned over your form, slowly, drinking you in, "Do you care to dance?" He asked, chuckling softly as he took another sip of his drink.

"Dance?" You replied, taking a sip of your martini as well. Dancing with him couldn't hurt. It would give you an excuse to get closer to him, for the file... Yeah, for the file. He might have it in his inside jacket pocket. Coming quickly with your conclusion, you nodded, setting down your drink and offering your hand. "Just one, Eggsy. And then we talk."

"Whatever you want, love," He spoke, taking your hand in his and leading you to the dance floor, and what timing... The band had begun to play a slow song.

Pulling you close, and with one hand in yours, Eggsy put his other hand on your waist, as you put your extra hand on his shoulder. To the music the both of you swayed, moving from side to side, Eggsy keeping his eyes on you the entire time, as you gazed into his. It was nice, the atmosphere, but the unsaid tension was still there.

"Agent, does he have the file?" You heard over your earpiece, making you huff as you took your hand off of his shoulder to turn off your earpiece.

Eggsy tilted his head slightly, his eyes shining with slight amusement at your annoyed expression before they softened once more, his eyes landing on the necklace that lay around your neck. Without a word, he reached out and lightly brushed his thumb across the surface of the smooth, gold pendant. Your skin tingled as his thumb caressed the top of the necklace gently, his eyes remained glued to the necklace. "I remember that night." He muttered, finally allowing his eyes to stray from the necklace to your eyes. "We were after the same person, back in-"

"Back in Japan. I know." You pursed your lips, looking at him intently, trying your best to keep a calm composure as the memories resurfaced in your mind once more.

Dance, grab, and go. Dance, grab, and go. 

Eggsy mimicked you, pursing his own lips as he stared right back at you. He was studying you. From all the times you and he found each other during overlapping missions - which was quite a few over the years - he knew that you were hiding something. Something deep within. But what? He liked to think that he could read you pretty easily, but even though he had known you for more than four years, you were still a mystery to him. You could be a very good actor if need be. You could hide anything. Hell, there were so many secrets behind those gorgeous eyes of yours. And that's what made you so good at your job, Eggsy thought. You concealed yourself, you didn't let anyone see you; but, there were always traces, tiny cracks, or hints that would show themselves to whomever was looking close enough. Eggsy thought he was lucky enough to see some of those cracks.

Eggsy suddenly realized how close the two of you were standing, with his hand on your waist, pulling you close to him, for a soft sway of a dance. He couldn't help but let himself enjoy this moment, enjoying the way your body felt pressed against his, the warmth that radiated from your skin onto his; seeping, warming his bones, and filling his veins with electricity. The way his pulse pounded in his ears as he stared at your lips, imagining pressing his own against them. He wanted to kiss you. Not just because he wanted to; no. It was more than that. It was a craving, a burning desire he had been fighting since day one of meeting you. Every time he saw you, his heart skipped a beat and butterflies filled his stomach whenever your eyes met - even though he hated how cliche that all sounded in his head - he swore that he was getting addicted to you - he was addicted to you - his whole world became completely focused on you. It was insane. The longing.

If only, in a perfect world, the both of you could go off the grid, away from the espionage and the lies, and just be together. Away from the stress, the fear, the uncertainty. Just be together. But, Eggsy loved working as a spy. It was what his father did before him, and it gave Eggsy a new meaning of life… If Harry hadn’t found him, he probably would’ve still been outsmarting his mother’s abusive boyfriend by now. But you… If you had asked him to quit… He’d quit for you. 

Licking his lips, Eggsy spoke up, "I didn't think you'd keep it." You frowned, slightly, "Your necklace, I mean." He added quickly, his fingers twitching as he tightened his hold on your waist.

"Why wouldn't I keep it?" You raised a brow, "It's cute."

Eggsy chuckled, a grin reappearing back on his face, feeling the slightly awkward tension lifting, "I told you I have great taste.” He then continued, “Now, you never answered my question, love."

"As to why I'm here?" You continued with your response, raising a brow as your hand slid down from his shoulder to rest on his chest. You almost let out a small laugh, biting your bottom lip to stop the smile that was threatening to come out. A wave of fulfillment washed over you, and you felt like a weight had disappeared off of your shoulders. The file, the one that you were looking for, was in his breast pocket. You could tell from just the slightest of pressure that he carefully folded it all to fit into the pocket. "I'm here for that file that you stole from me."

Eggsy chuckled, shaking his head lightly, though you could see what you thought was disappointment in his eyes. "And here I thought you just wanted to see me."

"Who says I didn't also come here to see you?" You smiled, your hand sliding back up to place itself on his shoulder.

"Really, love?" Eggsy asked, raising an eyebrow as he stared at you, trying to discern if you were lying or if this was just some ploy to let his guard down, or possibly trick him into giving you the file... Which he would not do. He'd do anything for you, but giving you the file was not one of them.

You glanced away at the band, "Who's Alexandra Winselt?" You suddenly asked, bringing your voice down into a soft murmur, your eyes once more locking on his. 

"Jealous much, Y/N?" He joked, causing you to roll your eyes before answering him,

"Annoying much, Eggsy?"

Even though it didn't match up well with how slow the song was, Eggsy spun you out before spinning you back in - the hem of your dress swirling around you - before dipping you; your leg instinctively went up against the side of his torso, making him hold your thigh tightly with one hand, while the other was secured around your waist. Looking down at you, it wasn't obvious what he was thinking about, which made it all the more intriguing. And although the music was still playing, you felt the silence in the air.

He pulled you back up slowly, and for a moment, a slight moment, you thought he was going to kiss you. There was this... This look in his eyes was warm - You felt your heart swell - you couldn't figure out if this look he was giving you was new, or if he had ever looked at you like that before. You didn't think he looked at you like that before... Maybe it was in Rio, or Japan the year before, or maybe even in Canada the year before that... Maybe it was in London, where you first met. You were sure, but that look, it was something else.

Dance.

"Eggsy..." You spoke up, cutting the thick tension like a knife through butter, your voice no higher than a whisper - angelic in his ears; you almost felt as if you didn't even say anything, but you were certain Eggsy heard you. 

You felt an overwhelming urge to lean up and kiss him, but instead, you held yourself back from doing so. The moment lasted only for a second but it seemed like hours as Eggsy kept staring into your eyes, trying to determine whether or not to let his desires take control. If only he knew how strong the pull was between the two of you; it was like the gravity between the two of you grew and multiplied, as if you two were drawn to each other by magnets. You both stood, in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by other dancers as the music faded and a more upbeat classical song began. 

“Y/N…” Eggsy raised his hand, tucking a few stray hairs behind your hair, his movements almost trance-like.

And then he was leaning in, and so were you. Eyes heavy-lidded, you felt his hot breath against your face, his nose nudging yours, your lips just brushing his. But you paused, just a hair away from your lips on his, you... You couldn’t do it. Sighing deeply, you shut your eyes fully, your mind and heart fighting against one another as Eggsy opened his eyes, blinking rapidly; confused. 

Grab.

"I'm sorry, Eggsy... I can't do this." You slowly pulled back, unable to look him in the eye, but knowing that his lips were turned into an incredibly perplexed, yet somewhat sad frown. With a hesitant touch, you flatted his lapels before continuing, "I already got what I needed." You then quickly pulled away from him, his arms dropping from your waist as you hurried out of the room, and out of the extravagant mansion.

… And go.

You harshly bit your bottom lip, the back of your eyes burning with unshed tears as you lightly sniffled and sped to your car, blindly and expertly grabbing the keys from the valet attendant. You didn't waste your time speeding out of the lot, and down the road before tapping on the radio. You turned up the volume, your eyes blurring slightly as you drove back to your hotel. You needed to get out of the country, and fast. God, feelings, you hated them. They just complicated everything, and they always hurt. You tried so hard to not fall for him, but every single time he walked into the room, every single time he made your cheeks flush, every single time his eyes met yours and he got that little smile on his face, everything inside of you melted like ice cream on a hot summer day. How was he able to make you feel like this? You had to get out of the country.

Eggsy stood, in the middle of the dancefloor, without you, and though he looked sort of odd standing there all by himself, staring at the floor in a sort of faraway expression on his face, he didn't care. He never really cared about what people thought about him. He felt heartbroken... It was the best word he could think of. Both heartbroken and confused. Why did you leave like that? He was pretty sure that if he left right now, he could have followed you. He wanted to, but... He knew that it wouldn't have worked. You were too independent, and too stubborn - it was two of the many things he loved about you. You had to come to your own conclusions. And he was sure that you had done that. He just wasn't the answer. 

Sighing, Eggsy took a deep breath in and out, his shoulders drooping as he gathered his composure. But he froze once more, feeling his shoulders stiffen again and his eyes widened slightly as he took in a sharp breath. 'I already got what I needed...' Eggsy replayed your words over and over again in his head and he recognized those words. They were the same words he said to you after he grabbed the file from you in New York at that bookstore. His hand snapped up to his right breast pocket. Opening his jacket, he huffed, defeated, dropping his hands to his side. The file was gone. Though, through the heartache, he let a small, fond - and definitely impressed - smile spread onto his face. Yet again, you managed to surprise him. He sighed heavily, running a hand down his face before heading to the bar. He needed a drink.

---

Main Masterlist | Kingsman Masterlist

---

@bethsvrse

[luna-azzurra]

Hello! It's so nice to get the chance to chat with such an inspiring writer! I love your tips and amazing storylines beyond words!

Are there any tips that you have to add a bit more... panic and trepidation to the reader for a character? Like, describing a panic attack in a way that makes the reader feel it too- if that makes sense.

Regardless of weather you may have any tips at the moment, your talent and narrative skills are incredible, and I am so thankful for every time you have gotten me out of a writer's block! <3

Hi... whoever you are, i just want to reach through the screen and give you a warm blanket and a really good cup of coffee because that message made me melt a little. THANK YOU ♥.♥

✧ so .... if you want the reader to feel the panic, you can’t just describe it clinically like “they had a panic attack.” that’s like saying “the building exploded” and calling it a day. no, you have to write it like the walls are closing in, like the character can’t think straight, like their own body has turned traitor and their brain is stuck in a flashing red warning loop.

That means, use short, clipped sentences and break up the rhythm. normal thoughts don’t flow when you’re panicking, they come in gasps. like...

something’s wrong. too loud. too bright. i can’t— i can’t breathe. make it stop.

✧ describe physical symptoms, but not in a detached “this is happening” way, more like “this is happening to me and i don’t understand why.” make it sensory. the sweat dripping down their spine, the heartbeat pounding like it’s echoing in their skull, their lungs forgetting how to work even though they should know how. nausea. tunnel vision. that floaty feeling like they’re leaving their body.

✧ if your character is usually logical, make them irrational. if they’re usually calm, let them lose grip. their thoughts should feel jagged, scrambled, loud or maybe suddenly mute, like the brain just cuts the lights.

✧ include shame. a lot of panic is internal, no one sees the hurricane inside your chest. and the character might know they’re spiraling, and hate that they’re spiraling, but feel powerless to stop it. “why am i like this?” energy. self-directed frustration. this adds vulnerability that hurts to read (in a good way).

✧ use the environment to reflect their mental state. things blur. the floor tilts. voices sound warped, far away. the world stops making sense for a moment, or becomes too much all at once. the reader shouldn’t feel like they’re reading aboutthe panic, they should feel like they’re in it.

✧ and don’t resolve it too fast. let it linger a little. let the character come down slowly. shaking. not okay yet. not fully “back.” sometimes the after is just as raw. the part where they realize people saw, or they try to pretend everything’s fine but their hands won’t stop trembling.

AND HONESTLY, read your scene out loud. if it makes you breathe a little faster or makes your chest feel tight, you nailed it. that’s the body knowing what good writing feels like.

you got this. panic is hard to write, but it’s powerful when you get it right, and from your message, i know you have the emotional range to do it. go make readers cry and feel things. you’re already amazing.

pls keep writing ♥.♥

[yourcutelittlegayfriend]

No More Chances:

Fate's Prologue Assessment

CUT!

Let's review your scrip again, yes?

• Regression is the act of going back or a return to a past.

• You can guess what types of manwha I've reading.

• That's the AU for this fic that I intended for Y/N to have.

• Regarding about their past, I have mentioned that they have been regressing far too many times, reliving a new and yet still old life.

• Answer to why so many resets is possibly because of the 'butterfly effect' or something where even repeating resets can achange the outcomes because of the new actions you perform.

• Y/N might have done something that was different from 'the script' that led to a bad outcome resulting to another reset.

• The past or Y/N's original life is permanent and can never be change.

• Y/N will always come back as the young abandoned orphan of Bruce Wayne, who was neglected and forgotten in favor of his other children.

• Resets can only happen when Y/N is literally killed, Y/N does not have the power to control it, if Y/N want to reset, you know what you have to do, that's the price you must pay.

• Life is precious and if you want to play with it, it'll cost you your own life and sanity.

• I headcannon that death already know about this but decided not to interfer, it's not like you're an actual immortal or anything, I guess you can say you're already punishing yourself by caging your fate in a loop hole.

• Going back to the backstories, everything is a bit blurry but will be revealed by flashbacks (That's what happens when you keep **** yourself).

• Y/N remembers their mother but not her face or voice, they remember moments with them but only the fleeting ones, their touch, the warm kiss on your forehead and the cold hands that touched your bloodied cheek before it drop to the ground.

• Y/N is born and raise as a Gothamite more so on the poorer parts of Gotham.

• It's a bit ironic that Y/N's backstory is almost the same as Bruce if not for a little difference in narrative, A young mother finally earnings extra money from work and took her kid out for some mother and child bonding as a request for their birthday but the night ended with a robber being a little trigger happy and shot the mother in an alleyway grabbing all her money and possesions while leaving the traumatized child to watch their mother's life leave her body.

• Commissioner Gordon arrived at the scene and couldn't help but reminiscent a little wayne boy also sitting on the cold concrete floor of crime alley crying for his parents death years ago.

• Implied that in the next parts that Y/N will become mature and more far off than the other version of her.

• Y/N might be a kid again but they remembered some of their supposed 'ending' and in return gain more than enough trauma.

• It might be a little bit corny or too much but I want Y/N to be a little petty or hateful to the rest of the family in the upcoming interactions.

• Only acting nice and patient around the rest when you face them, they're detectives I know but how are they gonna find out when your fake acting doesn't really matter from the rest of their problems am I right?.

Lil tiny note : I want this fic have a lil angsty with some comedic stuff would that be alright?

That's all I got for now but if any of you guys want to add more traits for your own Y/N you guys can add it down.

Let's take 5!

I'll prepare for your next lines, ok?

〖 = ✧ = 〗

Do you guys want me to tag you on this stuff as well or just on the main story?

[inmyheaddd]

✦ in the back of my mind - jameson hawthorne x reader

warnings -> em*ly is mentioned for like .2 seconds, little bit angst + arguing, happy ending i promise!! a/n -> jameson my baby ☹️ wc -> 1.2k masterlist

you slammed the door hard with a thud behind you, not really knowing where you were headed now, but just knowing you needed to be anywhere else but that godforsaken house. the almost screaming-match you had with jameson earlier had your ears almost ringing, and with a pounding headache that worsened every step.

without your permission, your mind repeated every moment on a loop. 

“jameson, just stop!” you care more about winning and your games than you do about me.”

“don’t say that,” he pleaded, taking a step towards you as you stepped back. “you know that’s not true.”

“well it feels like it’s true!” 

“this is who i am!” he gestured to himself with his hands. “you knew that from the very start, don’t be mad because you couldn’t “fix me.””

you scoffed, tears flooding your eyes momentarily but you forced them back. you had to. 

“seriously? that’s what you think this is about? this isn’t about me “fixing you,” it’s about the fact that i’m always going to be second to whatever game you’re playing!”

“it’s not a game, it’s—”

“what? ‘it’s your life’?” you predicted. he said the same thing every single time. “it’s a part of you? it’s something i wouldn’t understand?” you cut him off, scoffing and shaking your head as you crossed your arms. 

“you’re right, jameson, i don’t understand. i thought that— that maybe, maybe you’d —“ you cut yourself off with a frustrated sigh, pinching the in between of your eyebrows. you couldn’t even get the words out.

you shook your head, “god, i can’t do this anymore.” you muttered, more to yourself than to jameson. 

you remember the way worry flashed through jamesons eyes as you said those last words, before you turned on your heels.

and now you were here. 

the wind whipped through your hair as you sat on the cliff side, hugging your knees to your chest. 

you could barely hear anything over the roaring waves below, but maybe that’s what you needed; the noise, the chaos outside to drown out the one in your head.

there was only one voice who could’ve broken through. jamesons. 

“running away already?” you closed your eyes at the way voice cut through the wind, his usual biting sarcasm making you clench your fists tighter.

“go away, jameson,” you muttered, staring out at the dark horizon. you couldn’t even look at him.

“not happening.” his tone somewhat softened as he stepped closer. “you shouldn’t be out here.” he stood a foot or so away from you now, and you felt his gaze on you like a physical thing. 

your head whipped around to look at him, your frustration bubbling up and flashing through your eyes. “don’t tell me what i should or shouldn’t do. why do you suddenly care anyway?” 

he frowned, opening his mouth to probably throw out some retort, but then he suddenly stopped. 

his green eyes, that looked more black now, flicked to the cliffs behind you, and something shifted in his expression. he took a single staggering step back, his confidence that he always had gone in an instant.

he called out your name, but it sounded strained. “get away from the edge,” his was voice tight, like he fought to get the words out.

you blinked, suddenly taken aback. “what? jameson—”

“get away from the edge, goddamnit!” he never raised his voice like this, and his voice almost cracked. that was when you saw it—the fear. not the teasing, not the games, but real, raw fear in his eyes.

you quickly got up and stepped towards him, the waves crashing even harder against the shore now making it almost impossible to hear yourself. “jameson, what’s going on?”

he didn’t answer. his breathing quickened, his fists clenched, and his eyes fixed on the drop below, and you realized—he wasn’t seeing you anymore. 

he was somewhere else. emily. it was all over his face, in the way he stood. 

you should’ve known. you shouldn’t have come here.

you swallowed thickly, not knowing how to go about this. that girl had damaged him on a whole different level, he had just started to heal, and you single-handedly pushed it all back. 

“jameson,” you said cautiously, taking a tentative step towards him. “i’m—“ you shook your head, “i’m not her. everything’s okay, we’re okay.” 

he flinched, his hands shaking as he raked them through his hair. “i— i can’t—” his voice broken, and his eyes were glossy.

“you need to get away from the edge,“ he repeated, pointing to the dive below. 

“jameson,” you held his quivering hands in yours, shaking him slightly to get him to look at you. “i’m not on the edge, i’m here, with you.” 

his eyes locked on yours, shaking his head, he said, “step back, it’s not funny anymore.” 

the fear was palpable in his voice, and it made your eyes sting. he sounded so small, your heart broke into a million pieces. is this what it was like with her?

“jameson, stop!” you begged, your voice being the one cracking now, “you’re scaring me.” you shook your head, pleading for him to just see you. “i’m not emily.” 

your eyes were welling up at the sight of jameson like this, so scared, so un-jameson, and it came crashing down on you just how bad emily effected him. 

the sound of her name seemed to snap him out of it, because now when he looked at you it felt like he actually saw you. 

your name fell off his lips in a single breath, before his eyes flickered all over you, like he was making sure it really was you.

he then pulled you into the tightest hug, like he was holding onto you for dear life. a hand came to the base of your neck, as his head nestled in your neck. the wind howled around you, but you didn’t let go. you don’t think anything could’ve made you let go in this situation.

his other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you close, and your arms were around his neck. you felt like crying with the weight of the situation, and you know he did too. 

“i’m sorry,” he mumbled into your neck, voice shaky. “for everything i said, for everything i didn’t do, for now, i just—” you pulled back from the hug, and your hands immediately found his once again. 

“i’m sorry i don’t show you how much i care more. the last time i did, i…” he trailed off, taking a deep breath in. 

he didn’t have to finish the sentence for you to understand. the last time he cared, she died, and he nearly did too. 

“jameson,” your hands tightened around his as you shook your head, wind blowing in your hair. “you don’t have to say anything, i get it.” 

“no, that’s the thing, i do.” you saw him swallow, adam’s apple bobbing before he spoke once again. “you don’t know how much i care for you, how much you matter to me. you’re number one in every thing. nothing else matters when i’m with you, you know that?” 

you were way past the point of holding back tears now, and by the looks of it, jameson was on the verge of them as well. 

“you’re my first thought in the morning, last thought before i sleep, and you infiltrate my dreams. i don’t deserve you — i know that, but i want you anyway. i’m selfish.” he took another deep shuddering breath in, eyes flicking between yours, “i’m so selfishly in love with you that it scares me.” 

that was the first time he had ever said those words to you. in love with you.

love.

but they weren’t just words, they were everything. 

it was what you two had been dancing around for the past months in your relationship, it was him taking off his armor. 

your eyes searched his, looking for any sign that he was lying even though you knew you wouldn’t find any. your body was on auto pilot, the only thing you could do was kiss him. 

the kiss felt like you were really connected with him, intertwined. it was the furthest thing from lust it could’ve been. it felt like you were finally on the same page.

“i love you, jameson. i love all of you. i always will.” you whispered against his lips when you pulled back for a breath of air, before he pressed his lips needily to yours once again. 

when you pulled back this time, he rested his forehead against yours for a moment. 

you fell into a comfortable silence, but you could tell something was on his mind as his eyes wouldn’t meet yours. they were trained on the ground beneath you like he was deep in thought. 

you didn’t say anything, you wanted for him to feel comfortable enough to say it himself.

and then he did. 

“i don’t want to hurt you,” he admitted into the space between you, before his emerald eyes finally flicked up to yours. “i don’t know how to love right.” his voice was unbelievably low as he murmured.

he loved you so right, he was everything you could’ve ever wanted. you loved him for him. 

you didn’t say that though. instead, you brought a hand to his cheek, before weaving it through his hair as you looked intently into his heavy eyes. “then let me show you how.” 

taglist: @x-liv25-jamieswife @wish-i-were-heather @thecircularlibrary @whatsamongus @notshortbutsweet

@littlemissmentallyunstable @anintellectualintellectual @bewitchingkisses @maybxlle @sheisntyou

@emelia07 @midiosaamor @sweetreveriee @charsoamerican

[lulublack90]

Prompt 9 - Foot

@rosekillermicrofic May 9, word count 655

Previous part First part Wolfstar series part 1

“Night, Mavis,” Barty said, and Evan got a strange sense of déjà vu. But nothing happened for the rest of the night apart from sleep. 

Evan woke early the next morning. Barty’s foot was kicking him in the leg. He wiggled his way out as quietly as he could and got dressed. Mavis opened one green eye at him, glaring, because he’d dared to wake her up. 

“Sorry,” he whispered before tiptoeing out of the bedroom and making his way downstairs. He put his shoes and coat on and, after grabbing his keys, walked towards the bakery. 

It was only when he tried to push the door open that he realised how early it was. The bakery wouldn’t be open for another half an hour. He sighed and went for a walk by the canal while he waited for them to open. 

He was still upset by what had occurred the night before. Barty seemed to be strangely fine with what happened. Evan would find a way to make it up to him. He took his phone out of his pocket. It was early, but she’d be awake. He pressed dial, and after three rings they connected. 

“Hello, baby brother,” Pandora breathed down the line. 

“I am two minutes younger than you, Panda!” Evan argued. She loved to remind him she was the older twin. 

“And that’s what makes you my baby brother, baby brother,” he could hear the smirk in her voice. “Anyway. Why the early call? What’s up?” Evan bit his lip, unsure what to tell her. 

“I kind of met someone,” he started, but was quickly cut off by a loud squeal of excitement. 

“You’ve finally found someone! Tell me all about her! I need details, Evan! Is she fit? Please tell me she’s got at least a few more brain cells than the last one, for my sake and yours,” Evan let her finish before he started talking again. 

“Actually, she’s a he,” he winced as the line went silent. 

“Oh my goddess!” Pandora squealed so loudly, Evan nearly dropped his phone in the canal. 

“Bloody hell, Panda, have some thought for my poor eardrums. 

“You have a boyfriend!” She squealed slightly quieter. “Same questions. I need details, Evan!”

Evan told his sister all about Barty, knowing she wouldn’t leave it until he did. Finally, as he looped back on himself, heading back towards the bakery, she was out of questions for now, and he was able to get back to the reason he’d called her in the first place. 

“Panda, I need you to look into his personal accounts. His father controls them, and Barty can’t get his money. Can you see what you can do?” Pandora didn’t answer straight away. 

“I’ll do what I can,” she said, finally. “I need a few more details about him to track down the accounts, but yeah, I’m sure I can do something,” Evan let out a breath. 

“Thank you, Panda, love you,” he told her as he pushed the door to the bakery open. 

“Love you too, say hi to Barty for me,”

“I will,” he told her, and hung up. 

Ten minutes later, he had a paper bag bursting with chocolate éclairs. He put them in the fridge when he got home, not wanting to wake Barty up just yet, and fell asleep again, tucked up under the cosy blanket on the sofa. 

“Hey, Evan,” Barty prodded him awake some hours later. He yawned loudly before stretching and sitting up. 

“You were gone,” Barty said in a quiet voice. 

“Your dancing feet woke me up, so I went to get éclairs for breakfast. I must have fallen asleep on the sofa,”

“Éclairs! Where?!” Barty asked before bounding into the kitchen with Mavis close on his heels. Evan shook his head at the ridiculous man and followed him and his cat into the kitchen before Barty could inhale all the chocolate éclairs. 

Next part

[ervotica]

First, congrats on 2k! It is well deserved.

Second, for the kink wheel: sharing, with JJ Maybank and topper Thornton? If you’re not cool with those two, I’m also okay with Rafe and Topper 😉

i'm gunna do rafetopper for this particular one just because i have a very specific scenario in mind i feel suits them better, but feel free to send me another jj and topper one baby!!

warnings; poly!rafetopper x reader, dark!rafe + soft!dark!topper, drug use (r is explicitly stated to have done coke, rafe is sorta implied), heavy petting, making out, no actual smut but it is implied, 18+ only

a/n; oh this is sooo... i love them. pls pls i am BEGGING for requests of these two now they're sexy asf

Thick fingers curl around the circumference of your ribcage, peeling slick lips away from his own; you preen angrily at Rafe beneath you, jerking your chin indignantly when he reaches towards your face to anchor your gaze to his own.

"How aren't you tired, hm? Been at this for far too long, kid."

You bounce on your bum, rocking back on your heels where you're perched upon Rafe's lap on the couch; you're smacking away the hands that work to push you to the edge of his knees, effectively drawing you away from his kiss-bitten lips.

"You're done. You're cut off," he grouses, vexed stare meeting Topper's when he hooks two hands beneath your armpits and lifts you off of Rafe's lap. "Fuckin' take her. She's fuckin' relentless. Brat."

"Hey!" you whine, already squirming at the digits curling at the dip of your waist, drawing you into a different - but just as familiar - chest.

"Easy," Topper laughs, amusement tugging at the corners of his lips when you push yourself up onto tiptoes in voyage for a kiss. He grants your wish, taken aback at the way your lips slant hungrily over his own, but pulls away far too soon to quirk a brow at Rafe accusingly.

"Why is the kid vibrating out of her skin?" he asks, a crooked finger pointing at the older boy. "What'd you give her?"

Rafe rolls his eyes, disinterest oozing from his every pore when his thighs spread, lounging back on the couch. "Jus' gave her some blow. It's not a big deal, Top."

By this point you're clambering up Topper's front, elbows hooked tightly around his neck as you attempt to climb and secure your legs around him. Perspiration clings to your neck, clammy when Topper's palm comes to rest there and his other arm loops under your bum until you're lifted up and into his grasp.

"It is a big deal!" he grumbles. "She's gonna be wired all fuckin' night, now."

"Why'd you always do this?" you trill wetly, head dipping to mouth at the curve of Topper's jaw. "I didn't do anything!"

"'s not your fault, baby," Topper assents, planting himself on the other end of the couch; you shuffle forward in his lap, lips spilling into a pout as you chase his mouth once again.

He's soon lost in it, dazed from the feeling of your mouth suckling at him, manicured nails scratching at the sensitive skin at his nape. The only sound Rafe can focus on is the smacking of spit-slick lips, Topper's groan and your gentle mewl when his tongue ventures further, licking into your mouth.

"That's enough," Rafe gripes, one roughened hand slipping beneath your miniskirt to swat at the dimpled flesh of your bum. "Give her back now."

Topper pulls back, heaving, to glare daggers at the other boy. "No way. I just got her!"

"Seriously, just let me have her."

"No-"

Their voices begin to mesh and blend into one cacophony of noise, and you're frowning when Rafe's hands settle against the jut of your hipbones to snatch you away. He doesn't give you time to begin a string of petulant complaints, lips ensnaring your own in a fervent act of pure lust. You go pliant and soft, allowing your lips to part and make room for the wet muscle of his tongue that prods at the opening of your mouth, vying for entrance.

"Attagirl," he murmurs, a sweaty palm cupping the side of your face to draw you closer, other hand pinching at one pert nipple through the flimsy material of your shirt.

He pulls away to admire your half lidded eyes, clouded over with need as you absentmindedly rut yourself into Rafe's lap, tent in his pants growing by the second.

"Let's take her home. How does that sound?" Rafe asks.

For the first time that evening, the two boys are in agreement.

[ya-zz]

This was supposed to be a drabble... Take it, considering I haven't uploaded a fic in awhile, plus I really enjoyed writing this. Kudos to @yore-donatsu for the prompt! || Small headcanon on Rama: When in Nemesis, he can only use one pair of arms at a time. Imagine him in a situation where his Nemessis arms are stuck (and he can't free himself because otherwise he's in trouble) and he's swinging a stupid “I'm stuck” ||

Ramattra x Reader

Word Count: 1705

The sound of Ramattra turning to his nemesis form no longer startles you, being around him for several months now, it became a somewhat normal sound to hear alongside the usual day to day chaos. Of course, the only time you would hear him turn was when he was furious, using his larger form to threaten those around him. 

Then of course, there were the times he would use it to protect you from unwanted intruders or threats; his arms would encase you in a slightly uncomfortable but protective grasp. 

Though, this time, there was no fuzzy static that usually fades into the air when he finally comes back to his normal form. Instead, his voice rings out from across the room, pulling you out of the meditation you were under. 

“I require assistance, urgently.”

With a semi-irritated sigh, you stand and turn only to face Ramattra who was stuck near his workbench. He stares at you, circuits burning in an embarrassed flush as he watches you approach cautiously. I am not hearing the end of this, he thought.

“I may have miscalculated the space around me.” He says, nemesis arms tangled in a mass of wires. 

“How on earth did you manage that?” 

“Do not question me. Help me.” You could hear the authority in his tone. 

With a scoff, you respond, “You have other arms.” You point to the ones crossed at his chest. 

“I-“ His vocaliser cuts off, a click to reset before he speaks again. “I cannot use them in this form.”

You stare at him, dumbfounded. “You’re joking.” 

“I am not.” 

“Ramattra-“ 

“Please. I cannot free myself.” Desperation follows. 

Another thought crosses your mind, causing you to smirk which the omnic picks up on immediately. 

“Do not get any ideas.” His tone lowers, threatening you. The embarrassment was already too much to handle and he sure as hello asn’t in the mood to play.

“Oh, but why not? You look so… vulnerable all tangled up.” 

Ramattra watches your face, searching for any mischievous glint as your hands glide up his arms, resting them on his shoulders before your fingers trail up his neck. You feel the hum of his body at your fingertips as you lean up and plant a playful kiss where white meets purple. 

“Remove these wires immediately.” The omnic before you lowers his head slightly as he makes his demands. His larger arms tense, fists clenching among the wires as his irritation grows.

“What if I don’t?” You tease. 

“Quit playing.” Ramattra’s tone darkens, his nemesis fingers twitching. “Untangle me this instant.” 

You could hear the rising frustration in his voice. Rolling your eyes, you back down. “Okay, okay. Just stay still.”

The embarrassment that Ramattra was feeling didn’t subside, no matter how careful and soft your hands were. His fans whir loudly, puffs of steam leaving the vents in his back as you work on freeing him. He focuses on the way you touch him, though he cannot feel much, a project for a later date, it calms him somewhat. You were always so gentle with his body, not wanting to damage him as spare parts were scarce. 

Fingers would tease their way under the wires that had wrapped tightly around the metal before being tugged away, looping under and over another wire. Some of them were easy to remove, only needing a small pull to free it before letting it drop to the floor. The ones that were not budging needed that little extra strength to loosen them. There was a near silence that filled the room, neither one talking. The only noises were the clattering of wires as they fell to the floor and the omnics chassis humming. Soon enough, the pile of wires on the floor grew and one of his arms was slowly freed.  

“Why can’t you move your other arms?” You question to break the silence. 

“It will overload my systems. It is already a difficult task keeping this form up. You have seen that I can only stay like this for so long before I revert back to my usual state.” Ramattra states, matter-of-factly. 

“Ah, so you can’t multitask.” 

“That-“ He lets out an irritated sigh. “You are insufferable, you know that?” 

“I will leave you here.” You yank a wire that pulls him down with a grunt. 

He shoots you a glare in return, optical aperture shifting. “Do not.”

“Then be nice, otherwise, you can stay here longer.” Another wire joins the pile on the floor. “You need better cable management.” 

Ramattra scoffs, head tilting away from you. “My cables are fine.” 

You flick him on the neck, where he can feel it. “You know what I mean.”

He grumbles, muttering something in omnicode as one of his nemesis arms falls limp. Ramattra watches as you move to his other arm, starting to detangle the wires that had wrapped around it. It was the same process, the tighter wires needed more thought and the loose ones only a simple pull. You were careful, not wanting to scratch the metal that made up his arms. This arm was held a little higher due to the weight of his other one pulling him down at an angle. Standing on your toes, you wobble, though Ramattra wouldn’t be able to catch you if you did fall. 

You mumble to yourself, shaking from the stress of freeing him. “Next time, I am exploiting this scenario.” 

“There will not be a next time.” Ramattra’s tone darkens slightly as he responds, your mumble not going unheard. He huffs, vocaliser clicking to reset. “I am not embarrassing myself by letting this happen again.” 

“Oh? You’re embarrassed? Because you’ve had to ask for help from a human?” You smirk, knowing exactly the reaction you’ll get out of him. 

The omnic grunts, nemesis fist clenching tightly that you hear the metal scratching against each other. There goes that plan of not damaging his exterior… 

“Watch it, pet. You will not like the outcome.” 

The moment his arm is free from its restraints, the larger of his hands grab at your waist, pushing you against the wall. 

The sudden motion catches you off guard, a startled gasp escaping your throat as your back hits the concrete. You watch as the fingers of his normal form twitch against his arms. He’s losing restraint. 

Ramattra stares down at you, optics scanning your features. His head cocks to the side as he speaks; “perhaps another time I will give you want you want.” There was a playful tint to his tone, He knows how to rile you up in all the right ways.

His shadow looms over you, but you weren’t scared. Despite his intimidating stature, you knew who he was. He was your partner, his threats never meant any harm to you, half the time you never took him seriously anyway. You knew that behind his ‘threatening’ demeanour, he was nothing but a sweetheart. He had a soft sport for you and only you. You were special to him and he always made sure that you knew that.

“Perhaps next time you’ll have control over both sets of arms- ow!” Ramattra squeezes you slightly, not enough to cause serious harm, but as a warning. 

Before he has a chance to speak, the air around the both of you grows fuzzy, a slight static tickling your arms before he transforms back to his normal state. 

The larger hands had left your sides, small indentations litter your back and stomach from the sharp edges of his fingers, the cloth of your shirt not being enough protection from his grasp. 

“You are lucky I cannot hold that form for long.” He states, leaning down towards you. A chuckle escapes his vocaliser as he places his hands on your sides. They were softer, smaller, than his other hands. 

Ramattra pulls you flush against him, pressing his body into yours. “Thank you.” He is gentle in his normal form.

Bringing your own hands up, you hold him back, fingers trailing the metal braces that travel from his chest to his back before finally resting them just above the top most brace. 

You smile, leaning your head against his. “Anything for you.”

Ramattra hums softly, his hands travelling up your back. His sensors pick up the change in heart rate and the way your body relaxes against his. You’re warm against him and he finds himself feeling at home in your arms. 

“I will clean up.” He states, pulling away from you. 

“Let me help-” “You have done enough. Let me.” He chuckles, moving away to pick up the cables on the floor. He’s quick to coil them up, tying them together before putting them into a box. “I owe you for freeing me.” 

“You owe me nothing. It was a simple mistake.” You reassure him, not wanting anything in return. Watching him, you note he’s cautious of how they are placed. “You are being careful, why?”

He hesitates, holding the box in hand before sliding it under the workbench. “An old habit from the monastery.” 

You nod in understanding, approaching him quietly. You slide your hands around his waist, pressing your head against his back. His inner workings hum louder, your motion catching him off guard. 

“Do you miss it? The monastery, I mean?”

“Yes.” He replies solemnly. “But I cannot change what happened.” 

“If it any consolation, I’m glad that you’re here, Ramattra.” 

He places his hands on top of yours, thumb rubbing across your knuckles. “As am I.”

The room falls silent as you hold him. It was a touchy subject, one you never pressed. He would tell you in his own time. 

“Come on. It is getting late.” He finally speaks out. The omnic turns to face you, grabbing your hands and holding them. 

You smile up at him, enjoying the intimate moment you’re sharing. “I do not want to leave just yet.” Your voice was quiet as you stare at his hands.

He hums, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.  “Then we can stay here until you are ready to go.” 

“I would like that.” You almost whisper in response.

Ramattra tilts his head, cupping your cheek in his hand. 

“Then together we shall stay.” 

—

KOFI

[celandeline]

You’ve Got A Pretty Kind Of Dirty Face

Carl Grimes X Reader, Part 3 [previous part | next part]

Someone’s tapping at your window. 

Even after two years of being behind the walls of Alexandria, you can’t break the habit of waking up at every small disturbance, so it only takes a few taps before you’re slipping out of bed, pulling the knife you keep tucked under your mattress out and skirting around the bed to your window. 

You peer around the edge, knife in hand, only to see Carl crouched on the roof of your porch, gently tapping at your window. He smiles when he sees you, and gestures for you to open the window. You set your knife down, and start on the locks. You shouldn’t - it’s after dark, he most definitely snuck out, you already let him get too far by kissing you in the car today - but you do. It’s Carl, you can’t not. 

You push the window open, and hold it so that he can climb through before sliding it back into place. He still has that stupid smirk on his face when you turn to look at him. “Should I even ask why you’re here?”

“Probably better if you don’t.” He says, playful. “Plausible deniability and all.”

“That makes it sound like you’re planning something nefarious.” You say. 

“What if I am?” He steps closer, narrowing the distance between you. 

Before he can completely close the gap, you place a hand on his chest, keeping him a short distance away. “I don’t know what you were thinking in the car today but if your dad had seen, I swear-”

“He didn’t.” Carl cuts you off, voice low. You can feel his heartbeat against your hand. “I just wanted to thank you for saving my ass.” One of his hands comes up to wrap around your wrist, moving your palm from his chest so that he can press closer, his other hand finding your hip, holding softly. “Still feel like I should thank you again.” He says, just above a whisper. 

He’s so close, you can feel his breath against the skin of your cheek when he talks. “Carl.” You say. You shouldn’t, you shouldn’t; if Rick ever found out-

You don’t get to say more than his name because then his lips are on yours again, hungry just like they were before. He kisses you fiercely, and you can’t help but kiss him back. It feels good, it scratches that itch that only gets worse every time you stop yourself from enjoying him for fear of his father. You wind a hand into his hair, and kiss him back with the same intensity, working his mouth open so that you can dip your tongue inside.

He groans, low in the back of his throat as your tongue sweeps over his, and the hand he has on your hip tightens its grip. You can’t help but smile into the kiss, the hand that isn’t tangled in his hair finding one of the belt loops on his jeans and fiddling with it teasingly. 

When he pulls back, he’s breathing heavy. He doesn’t go far, still holding onto you as he rests his forehead on yours, looking down at where your fingers are still looped in his jeans. “Wish you wouldn’t keep doing that.” He says.

“Doing what?” You ask. 

“Saying my name like you want to say stop.” His hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, playing with the hem of your shirt. 

“It’s not-” You stop to figure out what you want to say. “I like you, Carl. A lot. I think you’re cute and funny and smart and I admire your strength. And I would like to be with you. But I don’t want to be with you at the cost of your relationship with your dad. I see how close you guys are, and I don’t want you and I getting together to drive a rift in that. And-” You pause. “I don’t want you to take this to mean that I don’t like you.”

He shakes his head. “How could I, when you just went on about how cute and smart and funny I am.”

“Shut up.” You say, the way he repeats it all back to you making it sound embarrassing. “I just… there's more than just that I don’t want to come between you and Rick. It’s also that you’ve never done this before, and I have, and I know that the first relationship you have is the one that sets the standards for the rest. It’s a lot of pressure not to fuck up. I don’t want to accidentally fuck up your conception of love.” You sigh, and then, to lighten the mood, “Also I think Rick would actually kill me if I took your virginity.”

Carl laughs, and lifts his forehead off yours to look you in the eye. “He probably would.” He agrees, smiling. And then, “But, um…” He pauses, brow furrowed slightly. “Hm.”

“What?” You ask. 

He smiles sheepishly. “I’m just trying to figure out how to say that I don’t care about what my dad thinks or that you or that you might fuck up or whatever without saying that I don’t… care.”

You laugh a little under your breath. “I guess I should’ve expected that.” He’s made it pretty obvious, with his insistent flirting and the way he so recklessly kissed you in the car today, that he’s too wrapped up in this thing to think about the impact it’ll have on his dad, or himself, or you. 

His hand skips under your shirt, fingers brushing along the skin of your back. “I get what you’re saying. And I think it’s really… admirable that you’re so concerned about me and my dad, but,” He pauses. “I could die tomorrow. You could die tomorrow. I don’t want to let this go without trying to make it work, ‘cause we might never get the chance again.”

There’s a sadness in his eyes that sends a pang through your heart. You know what he means - you’ve seen it for yourself. It’s very easy to die these days, and no one ever ties up all their loose ends before they go. The world is littered with ‘almosts’ and ‘what ifs’ and ‘if onlys’. It’s only natural to not want this, us, to end up in that ever growing pile.

“You’re very persuasive.” You say. 

Carl smiles, and his fingers play with the hem of your sweatpants. “So..?”

“So what?”

“So you’re not gonna tell me to go back home?”

“I guess not.” You say. “I have a feeling you didn’t come over here just to talk.”

“Not really.” He says. “Not that I don’t like talking to you but I also really like kissing you…”

You laugh as he tugs you closer again, and your lips connect. He doesn’t wait to slip his tongue between your lips, and his grip around your hips tightens. He kisses like he’s hungry for it, and you suppose he is, after you’ve been keeping him waiting. You wind your hands into his hair again, playing with the strands and grinning when you feel a shiver run up his spine from the touch. 

He whines against your lips, and suddenly you don’t know why you’ve been denying yourself this for months. 

You pull away only to step backwards towards your bed, your hands dropping to Carl’s belt loops again to tug him with you. He comes easily, grinning as you pull him into bed. You make yourself comfortable amongst your pillows, and he settles next to you, the both of you laying on your sides so close that your noses bump together. 

For a moment, you just look at each other, only able to make out each other's features in the semi-darkness because you are so close together. This time you’re the one to close the gap between you, pressing your lips to his and sliding a hand under his shirt, trailing your fingers along the plane of his stomach. He shivers again, and you smile against his lips. He’s so responsive, even to the littlest of touches. 

You pull away to trail kisses down his jaw until you reach the junction of his neck just below his ear. Your fear of Rick stops you from leaving a hickey there, but you still lick at the spot, just to make him shiver again. His fingers wind into the fabric of your shirt, holding onto you like he’ll die if he lets go. You move to nip at the lobe of his ear and he pulls you on top of him, crushing you to his chest. 

You can feel him hard underneath you when you sit back, straddling him. His hands fall back to your hips, and you place a hand on his chest, feeling the rapid beating of his heart under your palm. His pupils blown wide as he looks up at you, dark hair fanning across your pillow, you know what he’s going to ask before he even parts his lips. 

“Have sex with me.” 

You purse your lips. “Rick’s gonna murder me.”

Carl shakes his head, smiling. “No he won’t.”

“He so totally will.” You laugh. “He already accused me of corrupting you for trying to smuggle you alcohol, he’ll put my head on a pike for this.”

“I won’t let him.” He says, squeezing the sides of your hips. 

“And how exactly would you stop him?” You tease, leaning down to brush your lips over his again. 

He catches you in a proper kiss before he speaks. “I’ll ask real nicely.”

You sigh, and kiss him again. Rick’s going to kill you, but right now, when it’s just you and Carl in the comfort of your bed giving in to the feeling of his lips on yours and the way his bangs sweep across your face like butterfly kisses, you can’t bring yourself to care. You’re not going to pretend that you’re not incredibly turned on with this beautiful boy underneath you. And more importantly, you like him and he wants this.

“Okay.” You say, pulling your shirt over your head in a fluid motion, tossing the fabric to the floor. His words from earlier, that you might die tomorrow, echo in your head. You want this as much as he does, so why not? Why wait, when either of you could very easily wind up with walker teeth around your neck in a few hours?

Carl’s grins, eyes trailing down your front. “Really?”

“Did you want me to say no?” You ask, rising up on your knees so that you can ruck his shirt up his chest, purposefully trailing your fingers up the planes of his stomach to make goosebumps rise. 

He sits up, pulling his shirt the rest of the way off. “I just expected you to make me work for it more.”

As soon as his shirt’s all the way off, you attach yourself to his collarbones, nipping at the thin skin. Carl lets out a breathy gasp as you take the opportunity to begin trailing hickeys across his chest, confident that they’ll be hidden under his shirt. What you can’t leave on his neck, you leave across his collar, until he’s almost writhing under you, his hands fisted into your sweatpants. 

The moment you lift your head up from his skin, he’s pushing your shoulder, gently knocking you over so that he’s hovering over you now, trailing his lips up the side of your neck until he’s just underneath your ear. “Can I?” He whispers, breath tickling your skin. 

“Go crazy.” You say. What do you care if you’re covered in hickeys? He’s the one with the overbearing dad, not you.

Still, maybe you should have phrased it differently, because Carl does, in fact, go crazy. You’ll be surprised if your entire neck isn’t purple tomorrow. You can’t pretend you don’t enjoy his enthusiasm though, it’s been a while since you felt so… desired. You wind your arms around his back and trail your fingers up his spine. The way he arches into the touch makes you grin. 

He’s so warm, pressed against you as he leaves a necklace of bruises across your neck, his moans muffled by your skin between his teeth as he grinds against your thigh. You can feel his hard-on through his jeans, and you slip a hand down his stomach to dip into his pants, palming his dick. 

The whin he emits at your touch is delicious. You bite your lip to stifle your grin. 

“You’re making fun of me.” Carl accuses. 

“‘M not.” You say, even though you are a little. It’s cute, how sensitive he is, how obvious it is that he’s never done this before. “You’re just cute, ‘s all.” You bring your hand out of his jeans for a moment to undo the button. 

Carl rolls off you to shuck his jeans off, and you slide out of your sweatpants as well. You don’t let him climb back on top, pushing him down into your pillows so that you can straddle him again. Despite the hand on his chest, he still tries to sit up, brow slightly furrowed. 

“Why-?”

“‘Cause you haven’t done this before.” You cut him off with a kiss. “Just let me. You can be on top another time.”

The promise of another time makes him grin, and he lets you lay him down. His hands find your hips and you watch as his expression shifts, the sensation of your bare skin on his enough to make him sigh. Looking down at him, suddenly, your stomach swirls with nerves. Not for your own sake - no, you’ve done this before, and you’re under no illusion that he’ll last long - but for his. You want to make it good for him. 

“You have to tell me to stop if you want me to stop.” You say. “Or slow down, or anything - just, talk to me. I want it to be good-”

“I know.” He interrupts you. “Promise I’ll tell you to stop if I want you to stop.”

“Okay.” You say. Still a little nervous, you shove it down and rise up on your knees again, gently guiding his dick between your legs. His gaze drops to your hand and he sucks in a breath as you begin to sink down on him, his grip on your hips tightening enough to leave a bruise behind. 

He only exhales when you’re fully seated and his grip relaxes. “Fuck.”

You’ve just opened your mouth to ask him if he’s alright when he bucks beneath you, unsettling your balance. You gasp, falling forward, and he wraps his arms around you before he rolls over, still seated inside you. Your back hits the mattress before you can really realize what he’s done, and he tucks his head into your shoulder, groaning as he starts to fuck you. 

“What the fuck?” You say, voice breathy. 

He shakes his head, hair tickling your skin. “Just let me fuck you please. I don’t want you to go slow, you’ve been making me wait for months-” He cuts himself off with a moan, his hips knocking against yours. His thrusts are sloppy, but eager, and he trails his lips underneath your ear, letting all the little whines and moans slip right from his lips to your ear. 

You let him have his way with you, just winding your arms around his neck and enjoying the ride. He’s not half bad even though he doesn’t know what he’s doing. It’s his openness, you think that’s doing it for you. The way he holds onto you like you’re precious, the way he’s not ashamed about all the little noises slipping out of his mouth, the absence of the posturing and dominance that you’ve had to put up with from other guys. 

It’s not long before his hips are stuttering, and he lets out a long groan before he slumps against you, utterly spent. You move a hand from his shoulders to wind into his hair, playing with the strands. He sighs against your chest, and you smile, hugging him to you. 

“Thanks.” He says, rolling off you to lay against your side. “And sorry.”

“Sorry?” You laugh. 

“For lasting all of three seconds.” He mumbles, making himself comfortable in the valley of your chest. He drapes an arm over your stomach, gently tracing your hip bone. 

“‘S okay.” You say, pressing your lips into his hair. “It was your first time.”

You can feel him falling asleep against you, and hear it in his voice. “Gotta practice I guess.” He smirks against your skin. 

You laugh again, and stroke his hair until you both fall asleep.

[thewalrusespublicist]

LennonMcCartney is so interesting because on a certain level it’s clear cut what happened; they broke up, John moved on/fell in love, Paul was hurt but they both moved on. It’s only in recent years that it’s been acknowledged both J&P had complex feelings about it all with many skirting the line of ‘something more’ between them. How much is that the audience trying to make sense of what happened (people fall in&out of love) and J&P actually holding onto unresolved feelings? Both were absolutely invested in their lives after the other and for the most part were not on the same page re.the other’s/band’s place and legacy and had it not been for John’s tragic murder there’s no indication they would’ve established any sort of intimacy again. Although Paul’s unabashed desire for some sort of relationship with John may have kept hope alive but for the most part John just really seemed to wish he could shake Paul off.

Hi anon,

Thank you for your message! I hope you won't take this the wrong way, but I think some of your statements and conclusions here aren't wholly backed up by the evidence. If I'm correct, I think some of this may have come from the recent stuff in McCartney Legacy 2 where John seems dismissive and not wanting to talk to Paul? I get how someone could definitely think that John wanted nothing to do with Paul from those excerpts but the thing to remember about it being a bio on Paul is that it's inherently a lopsided perspective from Paul’s POV of the shut Dakota door. The reality is a lot more complex.

The idea that John ‘fell out of love’, moved on, was over Paul and never ever would have regained intimacy with him is not supported by John's temperament, behaviour or conversations he had with others during his lifetime. The evidence actually points to the exact opposite; that John never moved on, never got over Paul and wrestled with this until his dying day. That isn’t some shipper fan girl goggle-wish fulfillment or fans trying to come to grips with a hard, but simple fact of life. This is something blindingly clear from the deluge of testimonies we have. In fact, I would say that the idea of the live, laugh, love evolved John trying to get a way from the pesky gadfly that is Paul and the Beatles is the wish fulfillment built up from John's own cope and later Lennon estate projections.

The evidence for John's continued interest is pretty overwhelming so I’m just going to go with greatest hits. To start with, it wasn’t just Paul that was hurt by the breakup. Nothing says ‘I’ve moved on and am over someone’ like writing funeral on a picture of their wedding then at the same time writing a sad, sentimental line on a picture of the two of you, talking excitedly about hidden messages to you on your ex partner's new album and getting married eight days after them. Then there's the endless and ever evolving looping back to the break-up and why it happened that get reported throughout the decade in both conversations and interviews. Rather than an old scar, the break-up is a painful sore that John keeps picking at to try and get the poison out of it and failing.

As for playing and regaining intimacy, the opportunity for this to happen was raised multiple times in the 70s and by John just as much as Paul. It was John who contacted Paul and Linda to play with Yoko and he twice in ‘72. The possibility of playing together in the Lost Weekend was raised as well and there's pretty concrete evidence that John wanted to go down to New Orleans to play in 75'. The desire was there on both sides intermittently throughout the decade, it's just the timings more than anything.

The unfortunate situation that I think has left the poor impression over the overall decade is the late 70s/80 where we get a lot of anecdotes about Paul getting blocked and some of John's harshest stuff since the break-up. Crucially though, John had continual bouts of paranoia and depression in this time period. He was dedicated to his new life true, but the tough reality was that his new life was not giving him the life satisfaction he may have thought it would. Add Paul's contrasting increasing success and seemingly great marriage and it's like showing a red rag to a bull. And, sure, when he's supposedly writing in his diary about defeating Paul by Yoko buying a nicer cow for their farm I'm pretty sure he would like the concept of Paul to be blown off the face of the earth. But this isn't all the time, in other moments you have the 'my Pau Pau' demo, asking Elliot Mintz if thinks Paul is still thinking about him, talking lovingly about him to Jack Douglas etc. John's mood swung rapidly but whatever the feeling, it was far from indifference.

Even his shittier comments in the media betray him. There's the famous 'he came and I told him to go away and I haven't seen him since' one which yeah, he acts like Paul is this annoying thing on his doorstep but then he adds in the more vulnerable 'I didn't mean for him to take it like that'. You don't add it being a mistake if you’re indifferent or don’t want to see a person again. Also, on 80' he keeps going on about not really having spoken to him in a decade (which I would quibble but fine John). Again if you're indifferent or want someone to go away that wouldn't really bother you, but it bothers John that they aren't having meaningful conversations. John in interviews is a guy claiming he's over someone he.will.not.stop.talking.about. Someone he's resentful he's not more intimate with, not less.

 Aside from the evidence, it was not in John’s nature to not love someone or think about them. He loved his deadbeat dad, he worshiped the mother who abandoned him, he sent flowers when his childhood hero Elvis died despite mocking and criticising him. John was a man of contradiction. He was forward thinking, truth-seeking, eager to shove things aside for each new shiny thing and new ways to live. He was also sentimental, easily nostalgic and utterly incapable of forgetting those that had touched him deeply. I think some of his trying to thrust his past aside and pretend he's moved on was to cover for this incapability and subsequent vulnerability. 

But if we are looking at possibility of reconciliation, where were we actually when John died? Well, if we go from his very last statement about Paul, then Paul was the person he loved and would do anything for. Pretty warm whatever way you look at it.

Where things would have gone from 80' is anyone's guess but all signs were pointing towards, rather than away from each other.

[lo1k-diamonds]

Call You Mine💜 Chapter 1

PAIRING: idol!Yoongi x OC

SUMMARY: Freya despises everything soulmate-related, but one day her soulmate shows out of nowhere and turns everything upside down.

"Why didn’t you reach out to me?" Her eyes watered in response to his words and he was certain. "You knew who I was, how I was suffering." It pained him to say so, but he knew it was true. It had to be a conscious decision. And he had to know why.

A slowburn rejection soulmate story to make you fall in love with Min Yoongi (again).

WORD COUNT: 7.4k (Total: 297k)

GENRE: Rejection, Soulmate AU, s2l

RATING: Explicit

WARNINGS: angst, huge ass story that is an emotional rollercoaster, rejection (tho it has a happy ending), OC has a strong personality and flaws (all my characters do really), desperation, explicit sexual content, semipublic I guess?, riding, consensual but there's conflict, soulmate bond is inescapable and shit happens

(You can also read it on AO3, originally posted in December 2022)

A.N. I have this poll I've been meaning to do about my soulmate series and to do so, I thought I should probably introduce those stories first 😅😋Yoongi's story is the third of the Soul Palette Series (but the one that started it all). Again, it is a realistic rejection soulmate story because I wanted a story where the female character doesn't lose her backbone as soon as [insert soulmate] shows in the picture/has sex. Lots of angst and fighting until the stars align ;)

Masterlist | Masterpost | Scroll my stories on Tumblr | Schedule and WIPs

"Poetry, music, a painting, they don’t save the world. But they save the minute. And that is enough.” Matilde Campilho

What were the odds?

“Freya, are you listening to me?”

“Yeah, I am,” she answered nonchalantly, looking out through the car window.

Her mood soured with the conversation and the woman steering the wheel sighed. “Whenever the subject of soulmates gets brought up you just become…” Freya gave her an ice-cold look from the shotgun seat. That made the woman mad, “Insufferable.”

Freya smirked through her pain and looked away again. 

The woman sighed again, “We’ve been friends for almost nine years. Don’t you think I know you by now?”

Freya placed her elbow on the car door, supporting her chin on her hand. Her fingers covered her mouth strategically. She knew the lecture that was about to happen, Lidia never missed a chance to try and change her mind about this topic. She didn’t have the heart or energy to fight it anymore.

“Soulmates are each other's halves,” she started and Freya just clenched her jaw. “You were born with one, two parts of a whole.” Freya couldn’t have heard it or learned it better if she was in primary school. Sarcastic thoughts like that would flood her every time Lidia pulled that sermon on her. “Just because barely half the population finds theirs, does not mean yours isn’t out there.”

“Sure, he might be out there, but I wish to be like the other half of the population. You know, the one that was able to live happily by being with the people they chose to be with,” Freya said with a hint of victory. 

“Fair, but it doesn’t diminish the fact that their soulmates are still out there. They might have never met, but that doesn’t mean one should just ignore it or—”

“I’m not ignoring it,” Freya cut, annoyed. “I told you, I never met that person. Why would I lie!”

“I don’t know, maybe because you hate the idea of soulmates so much!” Lidia yelled back, fortunately without taking her eyes out of the traffic. Motorcycles were insane, trying to get in between the moving cars to get ahead. Freya was happy it was Lidia driving them to the venue. Lidia took a deep breath, “If something happened to him, you know you can tell me…”

Freya sighed, feeling stuck in the same loop, “I wouldn’t know, I’ve never met him.”

She hoped that would be the end of it, for now at least. Lidia seemed fixated on the idea that she was lying about her soulmate, that something tragic had happened, or that she was avoiding the person. Which didn’t make any sense according to her own rules, for fuck’s sake! Wouldn’t she be sick and whatnot if that was the case?

“Fine,” Lidia relented, as she always did when confronted with Freya's bitterness. “I would just like you to be open-minded when you do.”

Freya bit her tongue to hold back her remark and let the car fall into silence. She hated that topic and now it was stuck in her mind. She had never met that person and she never wanted to. She had no open-mindedness to offer because she would never be okay with it. And she wished she could just yell it out until it got through Lidia’s thick sand castles and baby cupids and stupid pink heartshaped butterflies: meeting your soulmate was terrible.

Sure they were supposed to be your other half, but they could literally be on the other side of the world. With different cultures and upbringings, you could be paired with a terrorist, misogynist, psychopath, the list went on. Who was it to say that person would actually fit your personality and values? Absolutely nothing, as history showed. Quite frankly, the fifty percent of the populace that never met them were the lucky ones. Never meeting them meant never experiencing withdrawals of absence. Never bending or nullifying your beliefs and values for the sake of someone else that, though unique, was probably not even the best match for you.

Because let’s face it: though science had proven its existence, who was to say the bond meant the same to everyone, or that it should be the same? For scientists, it was perceived more as an absolute physical attraction that would lead to the best procreation. That had nothing to do with love, with fated partners, or whatever else was mediatized. It all looked more like a romanticized publicity trope used to sell way more chocolates, flowers, and cards than Valentine’s Day. Or to make people feel misfitted and incomplete until they did find that person, instigating them to consume goods, programs, matchmaking events, anything that could speed that along. Why should anyone live with the unrelenting weight of not having met someone they never needed? That could ruin them, their lives? It was all terrible!

She would have known if she had met that person. Though she in general avoided physical contact, the mere presence of the other person was supposed to be enough for the both of them to know. She of course had no idea what it would feel like, soulbonds were also reported with different intensities for different people, but she was sure she’d know if that fateful moment ever occurred. Moreover, she would feel the withdrawal. Though tolerable to some, especially with medication, it would be impossible not to feel anything. She knew that’s how it would always play out: even if she avoided them and ran through the nearest exit as soon as she felt the bond, the need would hunt her, both of them, for as long as they lived. That was something she was willing to endure, though she honestly hoped she never had to. If she never met him, she’d never have to. So, she wished she never would. Simple.

Freya glanced at Lidia, who was now pulling over the security of the event and showing them her badge. Lidia couldn’t possibly understand her standpoint, and as much as they would fight about it, Freya wasn’t interested in shattering her dreams. If Lidia could one day live happily ever after with her fated mate and actually be happy, Freya would gladly support her. She just couldn’t be deluded by the idea like Lidia.

Their nine years of friendship were very precious to Freya. Though the focus on her career had led her astray from many of her friendships, Lidia always stuck by her. She was one of her dearest friends. She would always call and catch up on her, whether Freya was at a fashion runway, strike, or in a warzone. Maybe that was why Lidia was the only person she ever gave two cents to in regard to soulbonding. Everyone else was free to be their own idiot, but Lidia was her idiot. Freya didn’t want to see her get hurt. Lidia felt the exact same way, she knew that. It was the only reason they fought about it in the first place.

Lidia parked the car in the underground parking lot and Freya was forced to move. They were still by the entrance of the arena, the lights from the streets made their way to where they were. Lidia opened the trunk and Freya got her material ready. There was noise in the air and she kept trying to figure out what it was.

Lidia closed the trunk when Freya gave the nod and Freya’s blue eyes widened in shock. Beyond the entrance, behind the security barrier, there was a sea of people. People chanting, jumping, and screaming. 

Lidia was smirking at the sight, “Not your typical warzone, is it?”

Freya pulled her camera that was hanging on her chest to her face, regulating the lens to focus on them. They were mostly girls shouting, around their twenties, some if that. They had colorful banners with letters stamped on them and sticks with a ball that seemed to shine.

Click.

She looked briefly at the photo on the view screen, then up again at them. She was surprised.

“No, but similar. What could it be that makes them act like that?”

Lidia was passing her her media badge to access the event.

“Boys.”

He woke up from his nap, dazed. He kept having the same dream. He had had it for a while and in the beginning, he couldn’t remember it properly. Now, he could. No faces or characteristics, but he knew it was always the same person he dreamt of. When he told it to the others, they thought it had to be his soulmate and he had found the idea hilarious at first, that was impossible. But then, with the years, he started wondering. Was it that far-fetched that there was a connection between them if they were two pieces of the same soul? Maybe their pieces had an incredible bond and that was why he could dream of her.

Her. He couldn’t remember much, but he did remember that, which brought more weight to the possibility of her being his soulmate since soulmates were always of the opposite sex. For him, love or a partner was always about the connection, the person, not about their appearance or gender. He never felt like he had a gender preference because he would always look at personality first, but his soulmate would be female and he was okay with it. Though honestly, despite dreaming of her occasionally, he couldn’t conceive a relationship — he hadn’t had a serious one in almost ten years.

Life made it that way, and he accepted it. His career had taken off in a way he had dreamed and actually achieved. He was surrounded by amazing people, professionals, friends, and family alike. He had his fans, who supported him and allowed him to live every single one of his dreams, from making music, to not worrying about money, to being able to support his family comfortably. Did he ever wonder if loneliness was a price to pay for it all? Yes. Did he think it was? No. He wasn’t looking for a relationship, or his soulmate. They would show in due time. He was living, bit by bit, in tranquility.

He of course thought about what would happen if he met her. Seokjin and Hoseok had found theirs and they were exceedingly happy. They gave all others the hope of a lifetime of happiness and fulfillment, though none were particularly searching for it. ARMYs didn't know about their discovery, they had decided it that way. Not even necessarily because of the fans, but because of the sasaengs and paparazzi. The lack of privacy would be overwhelming and the men didn't wish to ruin their soulmates' lives.

If anyone had to choose who appeared the least interested in the whole soulmate trope it would probably be him. Yoongi was known for many things, he was aware, and the top included being snarky, lazy, and perfectionist. Some probably saw him as the most cold, obsessed with his music, a workaholic. It was somewhat true, he shrugged. Ideas were constantly in his mind and he was the happiest if he was putting them to life. That meant spending a lot of time by himself in the comfort and safety of his studio, space, and mind. It also meant he slept a lot. None of those characteristics meant he actually was cold or uninterested in finding his soulmate. Quite on the contrary, sometimes it felt it was the exact piece that was missing. He lived with it, but he wouldn't deny it or reject it if it happened. He would welcome her wholeheartedly, he had been waiting for some time now.

There was pressure to perform in front of thousands of people that night, as it was BTS’s last tour date in Europe, in Berlin. He was very tired, exhausted really, as were the others, but they were persevering. They had to, the quiet that would come after would be both a soothing balm and a curse. They had to make the best of it while they could, no matter what.

He was reflecting on that, at the backstage lounge after having slept a nap. The others were getting ready for the concert in other ways, though they were all quiet as the stress was building up. He walked out to reach the stylist's room and get his makeup done, knowing he would be the last one to do so when he felt it. He stumbled against the door awkwardly, completely taken by surprise. He looked around in shock, meeting the makeup artists’, hairdressers’, and stylists' surprised looks. 

She was there. She was there somewhere.

He was there somewhere. Freya was certain of it. She knew she would know when it happened and she knew. She was terrified, petrified in place, but she knew.

“Freya, what’s wrong?”

Lidia sounded worried and Freya blinked blankly for a second. She had fallen against the wall and was now leaning against it. People were passing in between them in that corridor in both directions, oblivious to them, most speaking a language she didn’t understand.

Freya immediately forced a smile, dismissing her question. “I’m fine, I just tripped.”

Lidia accepted it because, in the turmoil of people running around backstage, that wasn’t surprising. Little did she know what happened. Freya was nearly sweating from nervousness, her body too hot to handle the May warmth. 

How could that be, she thought, while following Lidia. She had lived in Berlin her whole life, why would it have to happen at a boy band concert? It made no sense, at all. On one hand, she had been super lucky to never stumble on him her whole life. On the other, really, a boy band concert? What if it was one of the fanboys outside?

That was her worst nightmare coming to reality. She wasn’t one to wallow in self-pity, but for fuck’s sake she almost had it. She almost lived a life in ignorance, free of fated bullcrap and withdrawal symptoms. Now she was facing her options: to run away immediately, to finish the job and hopefully never stumble on him, or to search for him. The latter wasn’t an option, and to leave without finishing the job was unprofessional. Lidia had asked her to be there to photograph that piece, the last concert date of the boy band in Europe, and she felt obligated to carry it through. They had an exclusive interview for their culture magazine and those photographs would make the fans go insane. Her professional code was above all else, she had fought tooth and nail to achieve everything she had. She vowed to never let her soulmate change her and it would certainly not start now.

Avoiding the person would probably be impossible, she considered, still following Lidia. The stadium was packed with fans and crew, there was no avoiding whoever it was. Since people kept passing through her constantly, she thought their bond must be pretty strong. Otherwise, how could it be that the sensation wasn’t fading as the person walked past her? They probably weren’t even walking past her. They were just somewhere in the vicinity.

There was no photoshoot scheduled, just the interview. When they walked into the artists' backstage lounge it was relatively quiet. There were seven, distinctively sitting in the corner of the room that had been lit and specially prepared for the occasion. Freya was surprised the artist’s crew had prepared that small arrangement for the interview, as it would usually be up to the magazine to arrange it.

She stayed by the door and grabbed her camera, pulling it to her face.

Lidia walked ahead with a gorgeous smile, “Hello everyone! Are we late? I hope you didn't wait long.”

The question was rhetorical, they were well ahead of time. Freya was immediately immersed in seeing life through her lens. She would do what she did best, soulmate pull bothering her or not.

She did not pay attention to the conversation between Lidia and the publicists, managers, and whoever else. She was certain Lidia pointed at her because she saw it through her camera.

"Just ignore her," Lidia said with a smile, glancing back at the camera. Lidia knew she liked to work in peace.

She wasn't a photographer who would take a thousand pictures to be able to choose one. She would take ten to choose five. That meant being very conscious of every angle, light, positioning, and framing. Everything had to be perfect. She had won awards for pictures she barely had to edit precisely because of her attention to detail. In warzones, she was severely limited in time and supplies, she had to make due. It wasn't the same circumstance, but her work ethic applied.

She liked seeing the crew work around them tirelessly and she wasn't shy about snapping photos of them. She was certain then that the concert was only about 20% the actual musicians. Not to diminish their work, but the show itself was not of their making. They were just starring in it.

The interview was well underway when she turned to the artists themselves. That wasn't problematic, their smile wouldn't change between the first and last question. She actually believed they'd relax more as the questions progressed, making their photos portray their true nature better.

Those thirty minutes flew truly by. She quickly scanned the photos she took through the view screen to make sure she had all seven in perfect soul-capturing moments, but she frowned. There was one that was different. He was speaking in the photo she took, he had an honest expression, and a beautiful complexion, but she didn't feel like the photo was as good as the others. He wasn't captured as well.

She raised her eyes to look at him and her heart jumped a beat. He was looking down, hands over his crossed legs. His hair was beautifully styled over his forehead, he looked almost like a doll. He sure was frozen, but she knew he was listening. His bandmate was answering a question in English and Lidia laughed, not too loud but not fakely either. That man smiled, not out of politeness, but out of understanding. Out of deeper thoughts. Something more meaningful. 

Click.

She hadn't even thought of it, she had to capture it. Her stomach was twisting, she wasn't feeling too well. Damned soulbond shenanigans. She usually did very well in crowds, but she suddenly felt claustrophobic. She slipped through the entrance door and left. She was fighting hard for what was happening so as not to ruin her day.

He was barely containing himself. He had an urge, an energy pulse that wanted to pull at him and take him somewhere. He was sitting as still as he could, respectfully listening to the interview and answering when appropriate. He felt his smile might give it away, so he kept looking down. Some of the others noticed and touched him soothingly in worry, patting his back or shoulder softly. He stayed quiet, he couldn’t tell them yet.

When the journalist left and the room emptied a bit in the last ten minutes before the final preparations, he was finally free.

"What's wrong, Yoongi?" Hoseok was worried.

"Yeah, why didn't you answer the next album question?" Namjoon’s tone wasn't of irritation, just curiosity. "It's your question."

"You were really stiff too," Jimim commented with a concerned pout. They were next to each other and Jimin had at one point patted his lower back.

"Guys, let him talk," Seokjin interfered, waving his hand in front of his face. Was he getting hot? Cause Yoongi was burning up, and sweating without the show even starting.

"Look at him, he's flustered," Taehyung commented, looking at him from real close. Yoongi scoffed and brushed him away.

"Here's water, hyung," Jungkook offered him a water bottle which he gladly took.

"Guys," his voice sounded weird even to him. Since when was it this emotional? "I feel it."

"What?"

"Are you sick?"

"Don't push yourself too hard."

"Guys!" He grabbed Taehyung by the shoulders, who was still close and personal. He would have been annoyed if the occasion was different, he really didn’t care now. "I feel it. Her. She's here somewhere tonight. I feel it right now."

Chaos ensued, with some congratulations and some worries echoing throughout the room. They barely had a minute to discuss it with their manager Sejin, the first to be informed. 

They were rushed to the level underneath the stage and the manager just smacked Yoongi’s shoulder, "Focus on the show. We'll find her after."

He was nervous now, and not about the show. His mind was processing the facts now. The person wasn't in the crew, he would have felt it before. It had to be someone who entered the venue when he felt it. That could be anyone, from fans to workers, and little could be done to slim the number down from tens of thousands to one. That thought made him despair. How would he ever find her in so many people?

"Hey," Namjoon had his hand over his shoulder. His eyes had a glint of concern, but his expression exuded confidence. "She feels you too." Yoongi nodded, taking a deep breath. "She'll probably come forward after the concert."

"She's probably an ARMY," Hoseok winked. Yoongi just shrugged, he didn't care if she was. That was the least of his concerns right now.

"Just think this is for her, for all of them," Jimin added with a light smile.

Yoongi nodded and rushed to the stage, the same as them. He gave it his all. He was exhausted, but he wasn't giving up. He knew he shocked his brothers because he had probably never shown such a performance before. He couldn't explain it. He had newfound energy, and hope. Things would be different from now on, for the best. The thought that she was listening, and seeing him perform gave him an extra incentive. He teased the public way more than usual. He rarely displayed his English skills as openly, but the circumstances told him she couldn't be Korean. Whoever she was in that crowd, he wanted to make sure she knew they could communicate. Could she even tell it was him? She was probably as lost as he was.

The pull was hard. Freya was facing the whole crowd from that spot, near the stage. She could easily take pictures of the stage, as well as the fans. She was trying to focus on her job, but something kept interrupting her. Sometimes she would feel goosebumps all over her body, though she did not know why. Maybe if that guy stopped talking on the microphone all the time, she could actually hear herself think.

She rubbed her eyes with a sigh; the show was almost ending, it would be over soon. She was particularly snappy because of the bond-induced tension, she knew that. She would be able to leave as soon as it ended, just a little while longer.

Or so she thought. The venue started emptying and Lidia insisted for them to stay. She didn't complain at first, taking pictures of the heartbroken fans when the show ended. Most of them were emotional, tears staining their faces, but they were smiling. For them, it must have been a life experience to see BTS on stage. If only Freya could have appreciated it as much. She also wanted to cry. She wanted to run away so badly.

The venue was nearly empty when a publicist showed up to call for Lidia. Apparently, there were some matters left to discuss. Lidia nudged Freya, saying how nice it was of them to let them experience the concert for free before getting back to business. Freya knew it was nice, but she just shrugged. She wanted to leave.

But she couldn't, Lidia was her ride. She could always run away either way, but it wasn't professional.

"Do you want me to come with you?" She asked, willing.

"No, it's just a meeting. Footage of the fans leaving, the empty poststage and backstage, or even the tired artists are more important. Make it count," Lidia winked before leaving. She probably didn't notice Freya’s expression, as excited as if she was sucking on a sour lemon.

She needed to calm down, she thought. She had to be professional above all else. She could not, and would not, have that stupid occurrence ruin her photojournalist reputation. Over her dead body.

She exited the designated area, aimlessly taking shots whenever she felt it was worth it. She had her bag with other lenses that she would switch occasionally. She got lost.

Yoongi was despairing. He couldn't help it. He wasn't even listening to the argument anymore. He was focused on the feeling, on the internal drum. He was panicked that it was going to disappear in a heartbeat.

"There's nothing we can do! We can't prevent the fans from leaving the venue, we can't force them to leave one by one. Not to mention that just touching the subject would immediately destroy any option of privacy for Yoongi or his soulmate." Sejin was being reasonable, everyone knew that. But one glance at Yoongi's face said it all. It was not enough. 

Namjoon kept arguing, but Yoongi turned around to face the mirror, closing his eyes. He felt someone behind him.

"Do you still feel it?" Jungkook’s kind voice asked. 

He nodded with his heart tight in his chest. He did feel it, he felt it better now, if that made sense. It was called a pull for a reason. He felt pulled, compelled to move, to go somewhere. He didn't know where, he didn't know if it worked and it was probably not safe for him to leave that room. But he felt it as though he was a compass with an arrow juggling around. No one was going to find her but him. And he absolutely couldn't lose her.

He opened his eyes and confidently walked out, not paying attention to anyone. He didn't notice his brothers calling or manager Sejin telling them to let him go. The venue was nearly empty, maybe one-fourth of the fans were still around. He still felt her, so maybe they had a chance.

He walked to the higher levels completely on a gut feeling. He hadn't even changed outfits or showered yet, he was straight out of the stage with a gray hoodie and black tight pants. He had a black headband over his hairline that kept his short dark brown hair from falling down his eyes and the sweat from dripping. None of it mattered though, he didn’t have time to look presentable, he needed to find her.

When he reached the higher level, he wasn't even afraid to meet fans, the thought didn’t occur to him. He just stumbled, numb. He could barely feel it anymore, it was like a pulled elastic at the end. It was still there, and so was she. Yet, for a second his chest filled with anguish and it physically hurt. He had no sense of direction anymore. Nothing made sense anymore. He was failing and it was useless, he had no idea of what to do.

People were starting to mumble around him and he was brought back to reality. He needed an escape, to hide the repressed feelings that were starting to make his chest hurt. There was a door in front of him. He entered the room, slamming the door behind him.

Freya was walking aimlessly, completely lost. There weren't that many people around and she wasn't really interested in taking pictures anymore. The moment had passed. She hoped to catch the band leaving, knowing that was the kind of shot her magazine could appreciate for the online version of the article.

The more she kept going, the more sure she became that she was going the wrong way. She was effectively ignoring her surroundings and just going. The crew was going in the opposite direction, the fangirls and security too. She tried convincing herself that was totally normal. It was totally her own will taking her somewhere in order to snap more pictures. It was not that gut-wrenching pull telling her she had to be somewhere.

She was walking down a corridor when she suddenly froze. Her body was burning up, her heart racing out of control, but her gut clearly knew that was it. No need to go further. She was deaf at that point, the bond so strong it was a deafening physical energy current around her pushing her in only one direction: the door in front of her.

Everything else was muffled and unimportant. Yet from the outside of the door, she could already feel she shouldn’t open it. The force was so strong it was numbing. Her hand hovered over the door knob and she wondered how it wasn't vibrating with the resonance of such a powerful pull. She wanted to fight it with all of her strength, and her hand trembled. It would change her life forever if she opened that door. She didn't want that to happen.

But she wasn't strong enough, it was just so much stronger than her. She succumbed to it, fatefully so. She grabbed the doorknob and tried to rationalize it. It couldn’t hurt to see him at least once, or at least to tell him she wasn't and wasn't ever going to be interested. Yeah, that's it. That was why she had to get in there. It wasn't that person's fault and she should at least tell him that.

She entered the room quickly, a small meeting room, and closed the door without turning. Inside, the pull became like a magnetic field, all around them like walls, instead of a single string. She turned slowly around and saw a man standing behind the center table, having risen from his chair, staring at her in shock. He was different than she expected, though she expected nothing. He looked tired, that was her first thought. Why was he so tired? His dark brown hair was wet with sweat and falling over his headband. His eyes were smaller than she would expect, and darker. His skin was so pale she wondered if it was porcelain; was that makeup? He was her height it would seem, though bulkier than her. That hoodie did not give much away, but he looked comfortable. She was somewhat happy he was comfortable, despite his tiredness.

Her eyes were glued to him like nothing else existed because nothing else did. She was walking slowly in his direction, completely unaware. She had heard of the trance but she never thought it would be that strong. Her body moved on its own, her mind clouded as if she was high on drugs. She was such a strong-willed person, and yet it seemed all her convictions evaporated. Her legs were jello and would only move in his direction. She argued that it was only physical, her mind was still alert. Yet they were a step away from each other when she recognized her own lie. Her mind was as interested as her body, especially because she recognized him. But from where?

They shouldn't have touched, she thought. As soon as their hands did there was no denying it. There was no reasoning that could explain what was happening, except soulmating. Her chest filled with cheer bliss while her whole body warmed up like crazy as if she was a firework ready to pop in a million colors. And it was strange to recognize the same sort of emotion in such foreign eyes, in a stranger's face. She felt endeared by that face, propelled to care for that person with the clear consciousness that she did not know him. And her heart, or should she say soul, was at peace with it. 

She struggled with that thought. First, because she thought they would instantly love each other blindly or something, and she didn’t want that to happen. Second, because it confirmed her own theories that soulbonding would erase her sense of self, her autonomy, and her individuality. She would be damned if she’d ever let any of that happen.

She knew nothing would ever feel the same or compare to him. However, knowing it in theory or feeling it in practice were very different things. Every particle of her body and soul agreed that was it, her other half, and no other person, relationship or bond would ever replace it. She looked at her hands in his and she had to close her eyes for a second to control her emotions. The urge to hug him was making her toes curl.

“What’s your name?”

Her eyes jumped to him and widened. She knew him, she heard his voice a lot tonight. She pictured him without the headband in a pretty black suit and she gasped. He was one of the guys from the band! She was completely shaken to her core; how was that possible?! Weren’t they from the other side of the world? 

Then she shook her head, but of course he was. He didn’t live in Berlin, or else they’d have met before. He only happened to come to Berlin, and she only happened to be invited to work that piece last minute. Lidia would call it fate.

“What’s your name?”

His voice gave her goosebumps. He was saying it in English, not German, but she was totally fine with it. Despite the slight demand from his voice, he was using a loving tone. A soft caress to her ears meant to not trouble her. But she was troubled, deeply. She fought to keep her mouth shut, clenching her teeth and looking away. She saw his chest heave to take in a breath before insisting on knowing her name and she panicked. She couldn’t deny him if he kept asking, her soul wouldn’t allow it. So she kissed him.

She censored herself for a millisecond before their lips touched. Kissing him went against everything she stood for. First and foremost, because she was invading his privacy, his personal space. She was attacking him, sexually assaulting him for fuck’s sake. Soulmate or not, that couldn’t be taken lightly. Second, because it was disrespectful as a whole to kiss someone without knowing if they consented. What if he had a girlfriend or was married? Third, because she wanted to keep her distance from her soulmate. They were never supposed to have met, let alone touch or kiss. She wanted to leave, run away, and never look back. No matter the pain it would cause them both. That was too selfish of her and the more they dove in, the more she would hurt him, wound him. His soul, the other part of her. He was an unlucky bastard to be fated to be her other half.

Despite the flawless logic in all of those thoughts, she couldn’t stop her lips and he didn’t seem to mind. He was surprised for a second, before supporting her waist with his hands carefully while she grabbed his head in place. For someone who wanted to run away as soon as possible, she sure was keeping him firmly in her grip.

She forced him to walk back until he was against the wall. She did so because now he had nowhere to go, she could press her body against him. She felt absolute ecstasy running through her blood. She could not stop kissing him. She could not be stopped. She vaguely thought the only way would be for him to ask it, and she doubted he ever would.

His hands stayed respectfully at her waist, frustratingly so. It was infuriating in a way how he seemed to be more in control than she was when she was the one who didn’t want this to happen. She should be outraged that they were kissing without her consent. She didn’t have the mind space to think about that though, she would reflect on being a hypocrite later.

For now, his lips tasted like heaven. She was going into all the corny tropes because they fit exactly how she felt. She was riding the wave of a rush and it was divine. She had never been high on LSD or cocaine, but she imagined it came close to that. Her tongue had no problems invading his mouth, provoking hot waves of pleasure to reverberate through her whole body. The way he just accepted it, as if giving her the full reins of it, stupidly turned her on, egged her on. He was the only one who could stop her, why didn’t he?

She fought hard to stop their makeout session and pulled away, panting uncontrollably. She was eating him alive. So much for saying ‘goodbye, let’s never see each other again’.

“You… What's your name?”

Their faces were still glued together, his arms around her. She pushed herself away and turned to the side, covering her mouth with her right hand. Somehow, pulling away from him exhausted her. She felt like even gravity was against her. She stayed like that, panting at a short but safe distance, looking at him.

After a moment of silence, he walked to a chair and sat down. The corners of his lips were raised in a small smile, he looked calm. He had all the time in the world, it seemed. Well, she didn't, she had other things to do. Like running away and never look back. Stupid soulbond was too heavy, her legs were stomped.

He pointed at the chair across from him, on the other side of the table. "Please, sit."

She wanted to scream. He was being so gentle, so condescending. Was she an idiot that couldn't keep herself away? Y- No. She wasn't a fangirl. She was a hard-working adult. An award-winning photojournalist. She was in control. Mostly. She couldn't even look away from him, that empty chair had nothing on him.

She tried calming herself down. She took her camera strip out of her neck, letting the camera sit on the table, and then she also dropped her lens bag on the floor next to it. Her breathing was stabilizing and she swallowed dryly. He was patiently waiting for her. He looked like a mythological God observing her, a mere mortal, to cope with his presence. And she had all the intentions of kneeling and begging for whatever mercy he could give.

She scoffed and pulled her copper hair back, out of her face. It was good. That soulmate thing… It was strong. She never thought it would get to that point. She knew when to admit defeat. And that was certainly, still, not the time to. 

She took a step forward, convinced that she was in control. She was going to put her hand on his shoulder and say, ‘I’m sorry it had to be me. I’m not interested. Let’s forget this ever happened.'

Her hand actually hovered over his shoulder for a moment, when her blue eyes deviated to the exposed skin of his neck. Her hand trembled while she struggled between her wills, visceral thoughts opposing one another. He must have seen her inner battle because he extended his hand and guided hers to his shoulder calmingly. It tipped the scales.

Her hormones, body, whatever it was took control. What she wanted beyond him didn’t matter, no one beyond him mattered. She felt like everything in life was secondary, a faded background, dim against his brightness. There was only one thing she wanted.

Her leg heaved to the other side of him and she sat on top of his legs. He seemed to be expecting her lips when she leaned forward to greet him. His hands went to rest carefully by her waist while hers kept by his neck. He was taking her kisses fully, meeting her passion without ever imposing. But she was hungry. She started grinding herself against him and as soon as she could feel his hard-on clearly through his pants and her shorts, she just couldn’t stop anymore.

Her mind became foggy and nothing else but their pleasure meant anything. There was something at the end of the rainbow and she wanted it. Not want, want. Like the need to breathe. He grunted and parted their lips, trying to look around, at them, at her. 

She got up with a weird sense of ease. She unbuttoned her shorts without ever dropping her eyes from him. His, however, accompanied the fabric’s descent down her naked legs. She pulled her panties down in the same motion and he seemed to understand. His expression was now serious, as she imagined hers. She wanted it, like oxygen. Like daylight. He could stop it though. One word and her world would crumble.

He extended his right hand for her to take. She took it and got closer. He meant to get up, but she stopped him. She unbuttoned his pants herself while her heart drummed in her chest. It wasn’t even about what he was going to look like or anything of the sort. She just had to feel him.

She got on his lap and immediately pulled his erection out. It was hard and shiny, extending proudly upwards. Their eyes met and no words were spoken. His hands were on her hips and she just did what she was supposed to. She sat down.

It had never felt that way before. She was never the most sexual person, but it was not supposed to feel like that. If she had a will, it vanished then. Her completeness could not be described. It was like an explosion of color, like a gust of wind, like the stars on the black pane of the universe. She was a boat looking to anchor, he was the nest she came to sleep in. 

Once the cosmic waves were done resonating in her nerves, she opened her eyes, aware. It was like seeing everything blurry and then putting on glasses. She understood. She could barely think, but she knew she understood. And looking at his eyes, she knew he did too. His arms raised around her in a tight embrace to keep her close while her hips started rolling. She felt embraced, and accepted, like a promise was being made. Their bodies were giving something to each other because that was the only way their souls could be one again. That pleasure making her skin stretch was the extent their souls would ever touch each other. That was sad in a way, making her feel anguish. Yet he kissed her chest, right over her heart, making her come to an almost full stop. He was promising. She started moving again. That promise would only be real if they committed. If their souls actually touched and joined.

She had never felt pleasure like that. She thought she would reach her orgasm very soon, but somehow there was more. Like an endless staircase to heaven. He grew impatient with kissing her shirt and forced it out. She gladly helped. His lips on her skin were everything, and she moaned through clenched teeth at the shock. His tongue darted out to feel her breasts, contouring her bra edges and sneaking in as much as he could. She was still going, jumping as low as possible so he could do it. She grew impatient and her hands reached her back to release the bra when he stopped her.

He grabbed her hands, “No, don’t stop.”

It was a catalyst, if there could be one. His hands groped her firmly everywhere while she got lost in the feeling of riding him. She was now moaning with every motion, so ready to reach him whenever he was.

He grunted from the back of his throat, “Fuck.”

She nodded approvingly and felt the instant he was ready. She forced his hands on her breasts to squeeze hard while she sat down strongly a few times, making him go so deep it nearly hurt. 

Only it was pure bliss. She closed her eyes and all she could see was golden. Golden waves with particles of light. Her body trembled in spasms, her voice muted without breath. Her body felt like it was hovering in a breeze, floating. She could feel his hands, his body, inside and out. She felt warm and safe. Home. 

It lasted maybe fifteen seconds. Then, the golden waves receded, the lights disappeared like stars in the morning sky, her body floated softly to the ground, and it was done. Her head fell over his shoulder and his hand came to rest on her hair. They were both panting. They promised, it was done. She was hugging him as tightly as she could. She was scared to open her eyes.

You can go here to keep reading [ao3] (this story is finished) 💜

[justkending]

It's just a hobby. (Drabble)

Summary: You took up a new hobby, and Dean likes to poke and tease you for it, but you feel the need to seek a little revenge for the constant joking. 

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 3300+

A/N: I started this during the summer when I started five different crocheting projects (ADHD carried my summer hobbies) and decided to finish it before school started back up. I am currently still writing Found Memories, but I have to put a pause on it as the first month of school tends to take a lot of my time away from hobbies like writing… I’m moving to teach 8th-grade English this year and could use all the energy you’re all willing to send my way! Anyway, I hope you enjoy this short story, and I’m happy to have the inspiration to write for Dean again :)

(Also, this is the closest to smut I think I've ever written...)

_______

“Seriously?” Dean grumbled as he looked in the rearview mirror seeing me pulling yarn to untangle a knot I had created. 

Knowing where he was going with his normal banter, I just laughed and continued to focus on the craft in front of me. 

“I pulled this out like 20 minutes ago. How are you just now noticing?”

“I’m watching the road,” he argued, and I rolled my eyes. As always, he had been sneaking glances to the back of the cab at me every other minute. “The hunt wasn’t even 40 minutes away from the bunker. Why did you bring that?” 

“Why do you listen to the same three Led Zeppelin songs when you're upset about a hunt?” I countered, and he opened his mouth to disagree, but I answered for him to skip the sarcastic conversation brewing. “Comfort Dean. It’s all about comfort.”

“Why are you so weirded out by a normal hobby?” Sam jumped in, smirking, and sporting one of the many beanies I had made him with said hobby, which he had come to love. He looked down at a newspaper in his lap, no doubt already scoping out a new hunt. 

“It’s not-” Dean stumbled on his answer. “I’m not weirded out by it. It’s just not a hobby I imagine someone like Y/N taking up.” 

“You just described why you’re weirded out by it,” Sam looked at him with a blank stare. 

He ignored him and rolled his eyes. 

“What kind of people do you imagine the crocheting community to be full of?” I smiled, still looking down at my hands and knowing his answer already. 

“Grandmas,” he replied almost immediately. 

“Hmm,” I hummed as if surprised by his confession, even if it was wrong. “Well, if that’s the case, I’ll stop wasting my talents on things for you.” 

I could see his eyes shoot up in the mirror and a look of regret ghost over his green orbs. 

Dean liked to make a big deal about this particular hobby I had started up a little over six months ago. I think a part of him just liked to tease me about it, but deep down, I knew he was proud of my growth. He was just bad at voicing it.

The first things I ever crocheted were just simple squares in different stitch work to learn a variety of them better. Those squares became washcloths and, surprisingly, were still used daily in the kitchen. 

I learned to make bags, socks, hats, sweaters, stuffed animals, and even a few blankets. 

“Just 30 minutes ago, you took down five security guards, wrestled three teenage vampires, and booby-trapped half of his nest. Now you’re crocheting a sweater for Charlie that says, ‘What’s up bitches?’ in the backseat. Mind you, with blood still smeared on your face,” he raised an eyebrow at me in the mirror. 

I looked up and leaned toward the front to get a better look at myself. 

“Oh, shit, I thought I got it all,” I groaned, seeing a smear on the side of my face I must have missed. 

“It doesn’t add up,” he shook his head, but I could see a joking smile on his lips. 

“Much to your surprise Dean, girls can have more than one personality trait. I know you boys are all, ‘Ugh, monsters! Kill, kill, kill! I need a scotch in my hand and The God Father playing on loop in the background to show how manly I-’

“Hey,” Sam cut me off and looked at me with his sad puppy dog eyes. “I’m on your side.”

“You’re right… You also like to read and share fun facts,” I winked, touseling his hair and getting a scoff of a laugh as he swatted my hand away. “See how hurtful it can be when you forget our brains have the capacity to do more than one thing?” I turned back to Dean with my arms crossed on the bench seat in front of me. 

“I don’t think you're incapable of having more than one interest in life; I just think it’s interesting that you chose a 90-year-old women's side gig as your hobby,” Dean countered, pulling into the garage. 

“Well, if you can’t appreciate it, then you can’t have the gifts my hard work creates,” I huffed, gathering my things and sliding back to the door as Dean parked the car.

Once the car was in park, I was the first out. I wasn’t actually mad at him, I was a hundred percent messing with him, but he deserved it for teasing me this long about it when I knew he loved everything I had made him this far. 

He had a favorite blanket that he preferred to sleep with now. He had a nice sweater he wore around the bunker when he was cold. He had a few pairs of socks he preferred over store-bought ones. He even had a miniature plush Batman figurine that sat on his desk that I had learned to crochet just for him.

“Y/N, you don’t mean that!” he called after me, standing in the door on the driver's side of the Impala and shouting over the roof of it where I was walking inside. 

“We'll find out soon,” I yelled back, never turning around. 

The next three days, I teased him like he had me about this whole ordeal, but in my own way. 

When we were cooking in the kitchen or doing dishes, if he grabbed one of the squares that now acted as our kitchen hand towels, I would steal it from his hands and say, “Sorry, merchandise can only be used by those who value it.” 

With which he would respond, “Wait! I need that!” with his hands drenched in water after washing his hands. 

Just for extra measure, I took all the towels and moved them to a new place only Sam and I knew. He was happy to join in on my little prank, and every time he had one, he made sure Dean saw him with it. 

“Where did you get that?” Dean would jump up from wherever he was and march over to him to try and steal it. 

“Only the VIP customers have access to these,” Sam would wave it above his head out of reach of Dean. 

Another time, after a hunt, it was freezing in our motel room, where the heater barely worked, and the hotel didn't have enough blankets. Luckily I had one packed in the trunk of Baby, and I used it for extra coverage.

Even though Dean and I shared a bed, I wrapped it around me as I slept and said, “Sucks that you hate this so much, or else I’d share with you…”

He stared at me with complete annoyance when I gave him an exaggerated “Oh well” face before stealing it all for myself. 

I did, however, wake up to sharing it, but only because he had stolen it, and I was too tired to fight him about it.

I think one of my favorite times I rebuked him of his privileges was when he was wearing a pair of socks I had made him for Christmas around the house. I may have gotten a little more intense than I needed to, but the look on his face made it worth it.

He had come into the movie room to binge a few episodes of a new series I got him hooked on, and after he called me in to watch with him, I noticed the specific socks he had on. 

I grinned once my brain had formulated a plan to make him regret ever giving me hell for a hobby he obviously loved himself.

“Claire said there was a show called Love Island we should watch. I have no clue what it’s about, but she said it was popular and what the kids are watching now,” Dean conversed as he grabbed the remote from the table and stood with a blanket (not one of mine, as I had relocated all of them so he couldn’t find them) around his shoulders. 

He was in the perfect position for my plan. 

I walked over and, instead of facing the TV, stood right in front of him and looked up at him. 

“You know what we could do?” I whispered in a low and sultry voice, bringing my hand up to his chest and inching my fingers up to the collar of his t-shirt before pulling at it gently. His eyes instantly darkened, and he was frozen in his place. 

“Wh-What, uh, what can we do?” he stammered out. Even after three years of dating, he still got nervous. I loved it. 

“I think you know what,” I said, tiptoeing upward to quietly say in his ear, bringing my hand from his chest to the back of his neck, softly pulling him closer to me. 

“I think I have an idea,” he replied more confidently, immediately bringing his free hand to my waist and squeezing it. 

I could have faltered there, but I held strong. I was going to make him pay for all his little ‘grandma’ jokes he had sent my way the last few months. 

I pulled back, sending him a smirk that I knew revved him up. He returned it with his own and started leaning down, forgetting his grip on the blanket and remote. Now both of his hands sat on my hips with a stronghold. 

Before he could lean down any further, I pushed him backward harshly on the couch, and at first, he was shocked, then he was excited. 

Slouched into the cushion, looking up at me, his tongue came out to lick his lips and ended with a bite to his lower lip as he eyed me up and down as I stood over him. 

“Dear God, Y/N,” he hummed under his breath. 

I guess it helped that I was wearing some of my shorter PJ shorts, ones he had told me were his favorites, and a shirt that was cropped and slightly falling off my shoulder.

He had a thing for me being in a disheveled manner like this. Reminded him of how I looked after we fucked around, and he held pride knowing he played a part in the kind of glow I gave off. 

I wasn’t sure how long I could do this without failing myself on the original mission. I came here to fuck with him, and now he was the fucker. Or at least he was going to be if I didn’t follow through with my plan in the next minute. 

“You know, you should be happy you were by the couch,” I smiled, stepping to him and strategically bringing my legs to straddle his hips teasingly. 

His breath hitched at that, and I knew I had regained the upper hand. 

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” he hummed as he admired my hands pressing into his chest as I leaned in, bringing myself closer to him. 

“I was about to take you wherever I found you,” I whispered, looking him dead in the eyes with a soft smile. I looked him up and down and bit the inside of my cheek. That seemed to trigger his hands back to my hips instantly. This time a much more possessive lock on them. 

“I don’t know where this is coming from, but I can’t complain,” he said lowly, and I knew he was hooked. Now it was time for revenge. 

“Can I ask you a question?” I hummed, running my finger lightly over his hair down to his jaw, using the tip of it to push his chin up so I could see his eyes better. 

“Please,” he buzzed, drunk with lust. 

“Hmm,” I hummed, smiling more, dropping my gaze to his lips, then back at his eyes where he was drowning in dopamine by our current position. “Those socks you have on?” He didn’t catch on immediately and just furrowed his eyes as he processed what I asked. “They look familiar.” 

I leaned back from my seat, still straddling his hips, but not with nearly as much pressure as before. 

“What-” Dean started, but it dawned on him mid-thought. His eyes went from ready to tear my clothes off to annoyed realization. “Seriously.” 

“What?” I feigned ignorance and stood up, repositioning myself between his legs, both hands on his knees as I looked at him and leaned over. 

He couldn’t tell which way this was going for him, and that was the point. I was still winning this little game. 

I eased myself lower, squatting with my knees going into the couch and in between his thighs. My hands went flat on his knees and slowly started working up his thighs. 

“I can’t tell what you’re doing here, Y/N,” he said in a breathy voice. I watched as he tried to control himself, looking up away from me but not being able to help react to my hands on him. 

“I’m not doing anything,” I said in a voice that made him lower his nervous wandering eyes back to me. The amount of green in his eyes disappeared slowly. 

“You’re teasing me,” he said shortly as if he was worried his voice would tremble if he didn’t get it out quickly. 

“Maybe, maybe not,” I shrugged with a pursed lip before bringing my hands slowly back down his legs. 

“You’re mad at me,” he stuttered the last word when my hands worked their way back up, but further up than before.

“Now, why would you think that?” I tutted, shaking my head with an exaggerated look of hurt. 

All he could do was take a slow, deep breath in as I tilted my head and smiled devilishly at him.

“Don’t.” 

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t play innocent.” 

I grinned.

“You and I both know I’m far from that…” My tone was darker than before but in a seductive and tempting manner. 

He couldn’t hold back anymore. He shot up from his slouched position and leaned forward, grabbing my forearms in his hands and pulling me up in his lap with his nose mere inches from my own. 

“If your goal was to make me suffer, you won,” he whispered so quietly; if I wasn't this close, I wouldn't have heard it. He tilted his head up just enough for our noses to brush before pulling back. 

“Keep it together, girl… Keep it fucking together,” I repeated in my head. 

“Did I? Or am I just getting started?” I snarked, and that caused the new grip on my thigh to tighten, and I almost groaned at the pressure. 

“Don’t start a war you can’t win,” he smirked, feeling as though he possessed the power. 

Two can play that game. 

I smiled, bringing my free hand up and tracing it behind his ear before wrapping it slowly around the back of his neck. I brought his face closer to mine but stopped right when I could feel the brush of his lips. 

Our chests were pressed into each other, and I could feel his heart rate pick up. Perfect. 

I nudged our noses again and smiled as his eyes closed, and he naturally and lazily chased my lips. 

I rocked my hips in a measured manner, placed perfectly in the middle of his lap, and he sucked in a breath at the friction.

��Women don’t start wars. They finish them,” I whispered before promptly standing up and, in a swift motion, yanking the socks he had on off and walking to the exit. 

“Y/N!” I could hear his shout from the couch from where I knew he was with a full hard-on, unable to move just yet. 

“This granny is going to bed!” I shouted, speed-walking to my room in case he decided to run after me. 

“You little-!” the shout still seemed far behind me, and I quickly shut my bedroom door and locked it. 

Thankfully, I think I left him incapacitated for a second, and he didn’t follow me immediately. 

I actually didn’t hear from him for the rest of the night. I hoped I didn’t upset him, but also, the whole reason I had done what I had was because he had become a little ass about my favorite hobby. I don’t mind the jokes, but after a while, you want a pat on the back for learning something new. Especially from someone you care about. 

I went ahead and did my normal nighttime routine and got into bed before I started to read a book. I must have dozed off while reading because I woke up to the lights out, my book on the end table, and Dean crawling into the other side of the bed. 

Before I could say anything, his arms came around my waist, and he pulled me to his core. He was in his boxers and one of his soft t-shirts I made him wear to bed. 

For the record, I was perfectly fine with him in no shirt (or pants, for that matter), but when he did wear a shirt, I made him put on a certain kind cause his band and certain graphic tee ones were itchy on me when we cuddled. 

He took a deep sigh and nuzzled his face into the crevice between my neck and shoulder, one of his favorite places. 

“Why’d you lock your door?” he asked, already knowing I had woken up. 

He had definitely picked the lock.

“I thought you were going to hunt me down, and I forgot to unlock it,” I replied sleepily. 

There was silence for a minute, and eventually, he spoke up, whispering in my ear his apology. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Why?” I sighed with a winning grin he couldn't see, knowing why but playing coy anyway. 

“I’m sorry I haven’t told you how much I appreciate your brain,” he answered. 

That was not what I expected, but I was intrigued. 

“Hmmm,” I smiled, moving my hands to his that were wrapped around my ribs and nuzzling my backside closer to him. “Don’t stop now; you’re on a roll.” 

He laughed and invited my attempt to fit into him like a puzzle piece.

“You’re ambitious with everything you want to learn to do, and I don’t tell you enough how much of a turn-on that is,” he hummed, rubbing his head into mine and peppering a kiss on my neck here and there. “And I know you know how much I love the skills you gain, but sometimes I’m bad about just saying how impressive you are to me.” 

“You like my crocheting skills, Winchester,” I chuckled, turning my body to face him now and throwing one of my legs over his hips, pulling back in some. “Just say it.” 

“I love your crocheting skills,” he replied with a wide grin and brought a hand up to move the stray hairs that fell on my face. “I love your baking and cooking. I love your impressive TV show-binging skills. I love the random facts you have stored in that beautiful brain of yours. I love your surprisingly nerdy side of Marvel and superheroes. I love your attempt at being a gardener.”

“Hey, I have three plants that are thriving right now!” I argued, poking a finger in his chest, which he grabbed and kissed the tip of. 

“I love everything you’re passionate about,” he finished off. “I don’t tell you enough, and sometimes I like to see that face you give me when I tease you.” I gave him a look. “Maybe more than sometimes… But! I do love all those things and more about you, Y/N.” 

“I don’t doubt it,” I replied, scooting in closer. “But it is nice to hear it from those captivating lips of yours.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

We started smiling at each other, and I couldn’t help but feel a little guilty about earlier. 

“I’m sorry I teased you,” I sighed, moving to where I was embedded in his chest, and he wrapped himself back around me. 

“Don’t be. I deserved it,” he replied, chin on my head before he bent down and kissed the top of it. “I will say, though, I’ve never been mad about seeing that side of you.” 

“What side?” I looked up at him. 

“Don’t act like you didn’t know what you were doing,” he chuckled, pulling my head back to him. 

“Yeah, you’re right,” I agreed after a minute. “Hey.”

“Hm?” 

“You’re my favorite person. You know that, right?” 

“Feelings are very much mutual,” he answered, caressing a hand up and down my back. 

“Good. I’d have to kill you with one of my knitting needles if you said otherwise. Who said needleworking wasn’t dangerous, right?”

My Lovelies Forever:

@natura1phenomenon @lauravicente​ @kakakatey @traceyaudette @notyourtypicalrose  @laneygthememequeen @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @sandlee44 @thorne93 @thefaithfulwriter @marvelfansworld @essie1876 @greyeyedsmile14 @capsiclehan  @xostephanie @averyrogers83 @awesomenursingstudent @gh0stgurl @cs-please @carls1022 @jjlevin @rainbowkisses31 @carls1022 @anise-d-castle6 @deannotmoose @their-bibliophile @kitkatd7 @willowbleedsonpaper @mariaenchanted @snffbeebee @couldabeenamermaid @rebekahdawkins @alyispunk @drakelover78 @caruhleener

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@flamencodiva @hobby27 @sucker-for-dean @deans-baby-momma @squirrelgirl67 @death-unbecomes-you @snffbeebee @jerkbitchidjitassbutt @spnbaby-67 @akshi8278 @musiclovinchic93 @vicmc624 @carryon-doctor-lock @perpetualabsurdity @herscrunchiehairtie @spnwoman @shamelesslydean @monkeymcpoopoo @winchestergirl82 @luciathewinchestergirl @deansyahtzee @thatgirl1456 @sucker-for-dean @atomicloverdonkeyperson @screechingartisancashbailiff @akshi8278 @supernatural3002

[suguru-getos]

patience | gojo satoru x f!reader | part 1 |

a/n: here i go with another chapterwise fic :3 but this is mostly self-indulgent because i just need to vent it out ya'll. summary: you've just resigned from your job, life seems hectic and you're on the verge of drowning from all the mental stress. a certain stranger you meet after office at an ice-cream shop, has distracted you from wallowing in your own mess however.

a parted sigh escaped your lips, after thinking long and hard. you decide this was worth it. yes, this must be. this has to be… you have no other choice. would you rather let the stress claw you up inside out? eat you and make you hollow? speaking of hollow, frankly, you don't remember when was the last time you had felt fulfilled. or had felt an ounce of happiness coursing through your veins. there is nothing remotely similar to that in your cut-throat world. someone would say, y/n that's just being a tad too dramatic, you earn a lot of money. you have such a lavish lifestyle, you can afford what you want… then why does your chest tighten every time you wake up? why do you have to remind yourself to breathe… why is that your showers have been extravagantly longer? why is that you end up in your head for days.

you swallow a lump in your throat while you think about all this, the red bottomed heels that you wear are aching, they feel like you'd pass out from the restriction of being so prim and proper all the time. you want to wear soft, fluffy slides, you want to perish, you want to live.

you had been disassociating in your desk for what feels like ages, before sending your manager that pre-prepared email.

hi manager_name,

"as of today (date) I am formally resigning. let me know how I can help with the smooth handover process"

regards,

yes, this helps, this really does help. your stomach lunges down when you hit send though. a pit of bubbling what if's searing through your abdomen.

your watch vibrates just in time, stupid fucking apple watch - "log in about how you feel today", you laugh in disbelief. shit… you feel like absolute shit. what else is one supposed to feel? or maybe, when you think back, you don't know what it is that makes you feel numb. why can't you just be fucking happy. the world surely isn't ending. definitely isn't.

the rest of the day passes by in a haze, you are pulled in back to back meetings where you have to constantly remind yourself to put a smile on your face, to have the tone with which you speak polite, to tell about your reason being you need a break from it all. over and over and over. some of them believe you, some of them don't really. not your problem, not your circus, not your monkeys.

"I'd just like to remind that you can't take any leaves during the notice period. especially for the smooth transition of your roles and responsibilities." your manager hums, eyes carrying foul judgement. "of course, have read the policy." you retort, the thing is, you don't want to sound so judgemental and so snappy… but somehow your brain doesn't function well with all the cumulative stress you've been carrying.

once the hellish meetings get over, you get up from the cabin, plastering the 'I don't give a fuck' face on and walking back to your place. your throat feels dry with all the talking you have done, hands reflexively reaching for your tumbler. you find out it's empty. of course. when the little-est things are capable of pissing you off, then, and only then does this happen.

you get up, walking towards the common water purifier cooler to fill it up, one of your colleagues walking over to you and smiling. "hi y/n" you hate her, she is a condescending bitch if nothing else, amongst one of those people who are highly insecure themselves, and would paint the same insecurity all over others to normalize their feelings. there have been several instances, she's looped you into things she does, which you hate and don't want to be associated with. for example: last week, she says, "oh y/n, we both are so similar and don't tolerate bullshit, I think you can still be fake around the others but jeez, I can't pretend." then don't pretend? and how can she decide what you feel? and what you think? sometimes it's nasty comments about where did you get your clothes from, where is the glittery eye-shadow that you’re wearing from, and then she goes ahead and tells you where it's from… man, you're realizing you're starting to dislike everything and everyone. does overstimulation make someone so snappy you wonder? if that's the case, how can you really get over it? do you need a trip to the mountains? a trip to the beach? what the fuck is it that you fucking need! "oye- y/n" the snap of her finger brings you back to reality. you plaster another smile, "hello, sorry, I was just thinking about something." "have you lost some weight? I don't understand how you get time to do all that with us working full time." there she goes again, you look at your body, if anything, you've gained a few pounds within the last few weeks. "no, I don't think so." "come on, you don't have to lie about your workout routine, be a girl's girl." you want to be a violence's girl and hit her in the fucking head with a chair. "I think maybe the outfit is giving you the illusion that I've lost a few pounds." you hummed, happy to walk away or you'll lose your grip.

after you resigned, the behaviours change. suddenly everyone thinks you're a traitor, someone who can't stay with the group and has to walk away. it's evident with the way they look at you. your eyes glance at the clock, and a wave of relief washes over you. just 30 more minutes, and you'll be off from work. another minute of relief. maybe you should go outside and take a smoke… you sigh and lean back against your chair, gnawing at your lip.

what does it mean to be truly happy? you wonder really… were you truly happy when all your friends/colleagues who have resigned now, were there with you? nope. you'd hate to admit to yourself, and the idea stings your eyes with tears… but you don't remember how it feels to be truly happy. it's pathetic to be in a state of equilibrium or sadness always. 2-3 years ago, you had reached a state of despair and had taken anti-depressants and therapy. they just make you robotic, what even could help… nothing does… nothing NOTHING NOTHING!

after spiralling, while looking completely put together, you get up and leave the work premises. stress-eating, you've been doing that a lot these days. maybe a sugar rush would help, yes, it should help. your feet walk towards the ice-cream shop close to your work, and you mumble, "madagascar chocolate ice cream please." the vendor knows you already, you visit frequently. which is why you know the exact price of the cone and transfer the money to him. "I'll have what she's having" you hear an unfamiliar voice from beside you, you've been stuck in your head so much, you totally ignored that there is a looming, tall man standing next to you. your head tilts up, and up, and up. jesus christ he's tall. his hair are white, and he's wearing glasses. it's evening… why is he wearing those glasses. you'd admit your thoughts evaporated the second you laid your eyes on him. ethereal, handsome, angelic, godly. he looked like an angel. wearing a loose fitted black tee shirt that accentuated his prodding collar bone. he looked rich, you knew he was. the cologne was unmistakable. you are not sure whether you'd like to talk any further, because it didn't feel like he's very much interested, his eyes are still dead set on the menu.

the vendor gives your ice-cream to you first, and then gives him the same scoop. you turn to walk away, when the man mumbles, "I trusted you, and this is bitter." you blink, you…? is he talking to you? you turned around and looked at him. "well, are you talking to me?" satoru's smile turns bigger, you looked so small compared to him, just holding your silly little ice-cream. the work bag and the outfit is a stark contrast to your face though. the little eye bags in your eyes as well. you seem, tired, overwhelmed and exhausted. still, you look beautiful. frankly, satoru is approached by so many ladies, he was intrigued what got you living in your head so much that you don't even notice him standing next to you. women slither around him to get his number, he's had a few… distractions to keep himself sane with his line of work. peculiar. you seemed quite peculiar.

"yes, I am talking to you." he walks closer to you, watching how your face tilts up again to make eye contact. "what’s your name?" he hums, taking another lick of the ice-cream. "well, since you talked to me first, I suppose you should be the one to introduce yourself first?" oh she bites… satoru's grin only turns wider. "satoru gojo. jesus." he laughs, "you know one of my colleagues remind me of you, always snappy and yelling and just… a little weak. it's cute. not her, I mean- she is just a plain nuisance." was this dude being condescending to you? your eye twitches, jaw flexing. "well, I didn't know you were so eager to make opinions about others just from a single sentence." his smile fades a little, "not really, maybe you're just too competitive, miss still hasn't told me her name." you hummed, "my name is y/n" your eyes circle back to him what a handsome fucking twink! "and not my problem you decided to trust a complete stranger and ordered the same ice-cream as mine, only to not like it. I'm not paying for it." satoru chuckles, "of course, I'm not asking you to pay for it, I have more than enough to buy this entire ice-cream chain and seize control of it all over the world, and then, ban your silly little flavour for good." joking… he's joking, but his smile drops when he sees the joke only offended you further. you don't look happy, you only look pissed at him. and perhaps disappointed. "not like I'd do that, over you not telling me your name directly." he waves his hand, dismissing that proposal. "I hope you enjoy having more than enough to buy entire ice-cream companies." you retort, "I have to go home, good bye." of course you have to go home, you are dancing between your two feet in those cramping heels. "those heels are expensive too." satoru comments, looking down at your feet. you look at him, what was even this dude's deal? "okay? yes? I don't know what you mean?" "I mean, the flavour of the ice-cream was expensive, the one you ate, and I hated it. the heels you're wearing, expensive, and you hate it… except you're not saying that you hate it?" those heels were new, and true, they scathed your heel. "hmm, whatever, I like them, which is why I bought them. I didn't trust some random stranger to buy red-bottoms. and I'm happy with them, they're just new. new things take time to adapt. they have to adapt to my feet, I have to adapt to them. if you had been careful enough to adapt to the ice-cream and not giving up on it, you'd have liked madagascar chocolate flavour too." you cross your arms and look at him with a pout. serene, you look serene for once. it’s a different emotion than what satoru saw when he came inside the ice-cream parlour. maybe, you're right. he shrugs, "if I don't like anything first time, first glance, it's not my thing." he responded, and you nodded. "makes sense, I liked these heels, and I will bear the consequences." you squinted. what were you even conversing about with a bloody stranger?

"ah, you don't have to you know?" WHAT IS IT WITH HIM… "I WANT TO!" you're already overstimulated, jesus fucking christ! heels heels heels, ice cream ice cream ice cream YOU WANT TO BE LEFT ALONE! a second or two later, you realize you had lost it on a complete stranger, tears brimming in your eyes, you have been keeping it in for so long even the slightest of nudge would have caused you to collapse. that was the sole reason you came here to have ice-cream in the first place. and now, you've lost it.

satoru's eyes widen a little when he sees your eyes glossy, a stray tear falling from them. "sorry, little girl. uh- I like your ice-cream flavour, it's strong- and it's- chocolatey- and it's- creamy- I like the heels- they really-" oh he's unsure what to say. he did have an inkling that you were someone who didn't seem at her best, he is perceptive enough for that, but he just didn't know that you were so easy to break right now. part of him feels a little guilty, another part of him feels numb, he's seen people killed, he's killed people. what would a stranger's tears be worth?

"that's fine. sorry I've just been having a shitty day." you mumbled, evading eye contact and looking at your feet. "I understand" satoru is quick to comment, smiling again. "y/n, you're too pretty to cry." the next sentence betrays all logic whatsoever in satoru's mind. you blink, attention diverted from the way you had made things awkward to the bubbling compliment. "thanks?" you snort, wiping your tears. satoru smiles, he doesn't know why he said that, but hey, that's the truth. "I usually don't tear up over petty things, it's just these past few weeks have been a mess and I've just resigned from my job so… don't worry I'm fine." your explanation makes satoru grin wider, so protective of yourself. "good, now you don't have to wear those shitty heels anymore, you can wear those comfy and nice side ons? you know? the ones with fur? and wear jammies maybe." you look at him and your eyes soften. YES, YES THAT'S EXACTLY IT!

you nodded, "yeah, and then eventually, I'll be a happy girl." you say this with such doubt it's pathetic.

satoru's heart does something to him when you say it like that, like what do you mean? "you don't sound sure y/n" he pouts, both your ice-creams melting by now. "well, I am half sure, I am fine otherwise anyways.." you look up at him again, god he's pretty, and why were you talking to a stranger! "well, maybe if I can have your number and check for myself?" bold, satoru can be bold when he wants something. "what would you do about it even if I am not happy?" "something different than you…" "why?" "see this is why you're not happy, just relax y/n chan!" he chuckles, because he doesn’t know either. he just, said it in a whim… and he means it, he likes you… the realization of all these feelings is happening so fast for him, he doesn't want you to take him like a fluke. "fine." you mumble, exchanging contacts with him. "I have to go home, I am tired." you mumble, finally walking away. he just nods, waving bye and observing you walk away from him, standing still, just watching like you're the main character in a movie. silly girl, now he's replaying this conversation in his head over and over and over with a silly lovesick grin.