#it's easier when someone breaks up with you

[luna-azzurra]

10 Quiet Ways Your Character Is Breaking Their Own Heart (And Pretending It's Fine)

These are the betrayals that aren’t loud. They don’t come with fireworks or screaming matches. These are the small, slow deaths. The ones that your character lets happen... while smiling politely.

» They say yes when they desperately want to say no. Every. Damn. Time. They show up when they're exhausted. They agree to things they hate. They make themselves smaller, softer, easier, because "good people" don’t make waves, right? (Spoiler: they're drowning.)

» They keep chasing people who only love them halfway. It's not even subtle anymore. They know these people leave them on "read," show up late, make them feel like an afterthought. But they cling anyway, spinning every scrap of affection into a story about hope. (It’s not hope. It’s hunger.)

» They refuse to believe good things are meant for them. They’ll hype everyone else up. They’ll believe in everyone else's dreams. But when something finally good lands in their lap? They’ll panic. Push it away. Tell themselves it was a fluke. (Because being disappointed feels safer than being lucky.)

» They’re waiting for closure that will never come. An apology. An explanation. A miracle where someone says, "You were right, and I was wrong, and I’m so sorry." They wait years. Decades. Lifetimes. But deep down, they know: some people never come back. Some stories just end without punctuation.

» They’re hoarding all their "almosts" like treasures. The job they almost got. The love that almost worked. The version of themselves they almost became. They replay those maybes like a greatest hits album. (Meanwhile, real life is slipping by while they mourn possibilities.)

» They’re performing a version of success they secretly hate. Look at the Instagram. Look at the LinkedIn updates. Look at the shiny exterior. It looks like winning. But every trophy they collect feels heavier, not lighter. Every promotion tastes a little more like ash. (Turns out, chasing someone else's dream is still losing.)

» They forgive people who aren’t sorry. Not because they’re enlightened. Not because they’ve healed. But because it’s easier to pretend it didn’t hurt than to sit with the fact that it did—and that the person responsible doesn't care. (Some wounds scar better when you stop pretending they were accidents.)

» They punish themselves for still being soft. The world told them, again and again, that soft things get broken. And they believed it. So every time they feel too much? Every time they cry or hope or trust? They tell themselves they’re weak. Stupid. Embarrassing. (They're not. They're just still alive.)

» They downplay their own magic. They call their talents "lucky breaks." Their beauty "average." Their intelligence "no big deal." They shrug off compliments like they're dangerous. Because deep down, they've been taught that being remarkable makes you a target.

» They cling to the idea that if they just work harder, they'll finally be enough. They believe in meritocracy like it’s a religion. That if they hustle hard enough, self-sacrifice deep enough, burn themselves to ash perfectly enough, someone, somewhere, will finally say, "You're worthy now." (They were always worthy. The system is just broken.)

[leriexoxo]

A Hot Mess 2

Chan x Possessive! Reader

Tags: smut, MDNI, friends to lovers, possesive behavior, angst, fighting, hot angry sex, confession, unprotected sex, cursing

Word count: 4k

Summary: Neither of you ever talked about that night. But something changed. Chan became the one hovering, watching, touching too much, acting like he had a right to be mad when you pulled away—when you danced with someone else. He never asked to be yours. But now he’s furious that you belong to anyone else

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

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You were at his place again.

Not because you wanted to be, not because he asked, but because pretending things were normal was easier than being alone with your thoughts.

Chan sat across from you, one leg bouncing restlessly as his eyes flicked between the muted movie and you. He hadn’t touched the popcorn between you, hadn’t laughed once, hadn’t said much beyond, “You want the remote?” earlier.

You hadn’t said much either.

It had been four days since that night. Four days since you pulled him into that room, fought and clawed at him like a wild animal, fucked him like you hated him—and then cried in his arms while your fingernails left angry little half-moons in his skin.

But since then? Nothing.

No conversation. No “what are we?” No real acknowledgment that it even happened. You had slipped back into old routines with painful effort—like walking on a broken ankle, pretending it was fine.

Except he wasn’t fine.

He was acting like nothing had changed, like you were his something—but in small, insidious ways. The way he hovered behind you in the kitchen. The way his hand always rested on your back when he passed you. The way he stared. Hard. Like he was thinking things he didn’t know how to say.

And now, sitting in his hoodie with your legs curled up on his couch, you could feel him watching again.

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

His voice broke the silence, soft but a little too controlled.

“You going out tonight?”

Your eyes stayed on the screen, pretending you were actually watching it. “Nah. Think I’ll just stay in.”

A pause.

You felt the pause, heavy and deliberate, like he was waiting for you to flinch but you didn’t.

He nodded slowly, and you didn’t need to look at him to know he didn’t believe you. His knee stopped bouncing.

“Didn’t Jeongin say there was some party?”

“I’m not in the mood for a party,” you said simply, standing up like you needed water even though you didn’t. Your throat was dry for a different reason entirely.

Chan watched you walk toward the kitchen, eyes dragging over you like a curse.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“No,” you said, just loud enough that he’d hear it and just quiet enough that he couldn’t respond to it.

The air tensed again.

He didn’t follow you. He never used to give you space, not like this. He used to trail behind you like a shadow, laugh in your ear, drape himself over your back while you poured cereal just because he could.

Now he just watched.

And you hated it.

—

You left early.

Didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t linger like usual. Just grabbed your things and left his apartment like it wasn’t the only place that still felt safe.

Chan sat in the silence long after the door shut behind you.

He stared at the TV, still playing some half-watched movie neither of you cared about. The popcorn bowl sat untouched beside him.

He ran a hand down his face with a long exhale.

Maybe it was time to let you go.

Clearly, whatever had happened that night—whatever he’d let happen—had only made things worse. You wouldn’t look at him the same way. Wouldn’t talk to him. He thought, maybe if he gave you space, if he didn’t push, if he just waited… things would fall back into place.

Maybe he could forget how it felt to have your hands clawing at him, to hear you cry his name in the same breath you cursed him, to see you break and realize he’d been the one to shatter you.

But hours passed, and forgetting didn’t come easy.

He grabbed his phone to distract himself. Mindless scrolling. Cat video. Meme. A reel of someone’s new tattoo. Until—

His thumb stopped.

A familiar background. A mutual friend’s story. Bright lights. Loud music. A party.

Jeongin’s party.

His chest already felt tight before he even spotted you.

But then—there you were. Just a blur at first, moving behind a group selfie. Laughing. Head thrown back. A dress he hadn’t seen before.

Grinding on someone.

The video looped.

His breath punched out of him. Not anger. Not even jealousy. Something uglier.

He tapped the screen, trying to catch another glimpse. Rewatching. Zooming.

You were pressed up against some guy he didn’t even recognize—your hand resting on his chest like it belonged there. Flirting. Smiling. Dancing on him.

Chan’s jaw locked.

He dialed your number without thinking. It rang.

And rang.

No answer.

He called again. Still nothing. Third time. Voicemail.

His hand curled tight around the phone.

‘She lied.’

‘She fucking lied to my face.’

Another story popped up on his feed—a different angle, a better view. The guy had his hands on your hips now.

Something in Chan snapped clean in half.

—

You felt him watching you before you even saw him.

It was like a sixth sense—skin crawling, chest tightening, heart skipping a beat for all the wrong reasons. You were laughing, lips brushing close to some guy’s ear, your drink half-gone and your body swaying with the music when everything around you suddenly… shifted.

The air changed.

Your smile faltered, barely noticeable to anyone but you. Your heart thudded once, hard. Your eyes lifted just in time to see the front door swing shut behind him.

Chan.

He was standing there, still, stone-faced, chest rising and falling like he’d run here. His eyes locked onto you instantly—no scanning the room, no polite greetings. Just you. Only you.

And then he moved.

Not toward you. Not at first. Just into the room, slow, deliberate steps that made your breath catch in your throat.

You tried to laugh again, like nothing was wrong. Like your spine hadn’t just turned to ice.

The guy next to you leaned in, oblivious. “You okay?”

You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I just—need some air.”

You slipped away before Chan could reach you, heart pounding.

⸻

He watched you run. Coward.

He followed, silent and seething. Every step he took echoed with the sound of your laughter in that video. Your body on someone else’s. Your voice lying to his face.

He found you in the hallway near the back of the house—dim lighting, low music, empty space.

When you turned, he was already there. Followed you when you entered the room at the end of the hall and locked the door.

“Having fun?” he asked.

Your mouth opened, but the look on his face knocked the words from your tongue. He looked wrecked. And dangerous.

“I—”

“You lied to me.”

“I needed space.”

“So you lied.” His voice was quiet, sharp. “You needed space to grind on some fucking stranger?”

You bristled, crossing your arms. “Why do you care? You’ve barely said two words to me since that night.”

“Oh, I haven’t said anything?” He took a step closer. “You cried in my arms and then acted like I was a stranger the next day. You wouldn’t even look at me.”

“I was trying to forget it happened!”

His jaw clenched. “You looked real forgetful tonight.”

You scoffed. “Don’t flip this on me. You didn’t call to talk about it. You didn’t ask. You just watched me fall apart.”

“What I did watch was you fucking me and then pretending it meant nothing.”

Silence.

You flinched, but your pride didn’t let you back down. “It probably didn’t.”

He laughed—short, humorless. “You think I don’t know you?”

He took a step forward. “You don’t get to act like you hate me and then use me like that.”

Another. “You don’t get to lie to my face and let some guy put his hands on you like—”

“Like what?” Your voice cracked. “Like I’m fair game? Cause I am”

He was in front of you now. Chest heaving. Eyes dark and hungry and furious.

“You’re fucking mine,” he growled.

You shoved him. Hard. “You don’t get to say that. Not when you left me in the dark. Not when you—”

He grabbed your wrists and pushed you back into the wall, breath hot against your face.

“You’re mine.”

You squirmed. “Let me go.”

“Say it.”

“Fuck you, Chan.”

“You already did,” he whispered. “But I’m not done.”

You shoved at him again, and this time he let you—barely staggering back, but his eyes never leaving yours.

“God, you’re such a fucking asshole,” you snapped. “You don’t get to show up and act like I belong to you after leaving me in limbo for days, Chan. What the fuck do you even want from me?”

“Are you fucking serious right now? You clearly wanted space,” he hissed, “but I gave it to you and you ran straight into some random guy’s lap.”

“I only did that because you started acting weird! You wouldn’t talk, you wouldn’t even look at me—”

“I wouldn’t look at you?! I was trying to keep my fucking hands off you!”

Your mouth snapped shut.

His chest heaved, sweat glistening along his collarbones. “You think it was easy? Pretending that night didn’t change anything? I’ve been going insane.”

“You think I haven’t?” you shot back, voice trembling with rage. “I’ve basically been obsessed with you probably for months, Chan. I hated every girl you talked to, every time you left me on read, every time you acted like we were just friends—and then we finally crossed that line and you shut down.”

“I didn’t shut down,” he snarled. “I shut up. You didn’t want to talk about it. You wanted to act like nothing happened.”

“So I could protect myself!”

“No,” he snapped, voice low and dangerous now. “You wanted control.”

You stared at him. Stunned. Speechless.

“You started this whole fucking possessive game,” he continued, voice shaking now with emotion. “You couldn’t stand seeing me with other girls. You made scenes. You dragged me away like you owned me—and now that I feel the same fucking way, you can’t take it.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.” He stepped forward again, finger pointed right at your chest. “You want me to chase you, to want you, but the second I act like I need you, you start fucking running.”

“That’s not fair.”

“You’re a fucking hypocrite.”

You slapped him.

Or at least—you tried.

He caught your wrist before your hand even landed.

His grip was hard. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to warn.

“Don’t,” he breathed.

You thrashed in his hold, and he stepped in close, using the force to spin you—bending you sharply over the back of the chair behind you.

You gasped, hands flying to brace yourself. “What the fu—”

“Shut up,” he growled into your ear, chest pressed to your back, his body caging you in. “You want to fight? Then fucking fight me. But don’t pretend this isn’t what you wanted.”

“Fuck you,” you spat.

“You already said that,” he whispered, voice dark and fraying. “Now let me show you what it means.”

His hands were already on you, dragging up your dress like he didn’t care who saw, like he was stripping the lie off your body piece by piece. His breath was hot against your neck, his hips pressed hard against your ass, and his voice—low and venomous—melted right into your spine.

“Next time you grind on someone else,” he said, voice a threat and a promise, “you better be ready to crawl home.”

And then he snapped your panties to the side like they offended him.

The first swipe of his fingers between your legs dragged a broken moan from your throat.

“So wet,” he sneered. “Fucking knew it. You came out tonight wanting to be punished, didn’t you?”

You bit your lip hard, eyes squeezed shut, your hips involuntarily grinding back into his hand.

“Say it,” he ordered, rubbing slow circles over your clit like he had all the time in the world. “Say you wanted me to see you.”

“I didn’t,” you whispered.

He sank two fingers inside you without warning.

You gasped, lurching forward over the chair.

“Liar,” he hissed into your ear. “This pussy doesn’t lie. It knew I’d come for you.”

His free hand curled into your hair, yanking your head back until your spine arched and your chest was pressed against the cold leather. You were panting now, legs trembling.

“You lied to my face,” he growled. “You let him touch you. You wanted to piss me off, didn’t you?”

You whimpered when he curled his fingers just right, hitting that spot that made your knees buckle.

“I—wanted to forget.”

“No, baby,” he said darkly, licking the shell of your ear. “You wanted to test me.”

He pulled his fingers from you slowly, watching your slick glisten under the dim light. He held them to your mouth.

“Suck.”

You hesitated.

His other hand smacked your ass, hard.

You gasped, and his fingers slipped past your lips.

You moaned around them like a fucking sinner.

“That’s what I thought,” he muttered, unzipping his jeans like he’d waited long enough. His cock slapped against your ass, already hard and heavy, already dripping.

You turned your head to speak—to beg, maybe, or curse him again—but the second he pushed inside, the words died in your throat.

“F-Fuck—Chan—”

He bottomed out in one brutal thrust, forcing a strangled cry from you.

“Yeah,” he growled, gripping your hips like a man possessed. “That’s it. That’s what you need, huh? You needed to be fucked stupid.”

You couldn’t answer.

He was already moving—deep, fast, merciless.

The chair creaked beneath you. Your moans turned into cries. His name fell from your lips like a prayer, like a plea, like a curse.

He slapped your ass again, grabbing it after like it belonged to him. “Look at you. My perfect little slut. Throwing a tantrum just so I’d ruin you.”

You clawed at the leather, your voice cracking. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he growled, fucking you harder, meaner. “You hate that you love this.”

You were soaked. Squelching wet. And his cock dragged against every sensitive inch of you like he was trying to mark the inside of your body.

“You gonna run after this too?” he bit out. “Or do I have to fuck you until you stay?”

“Keep going,” you gasped, head falling forward. “Please—just—don’t stop.”

His breath hitched. Just for a second. Something changed in him then—like all the rage had been swallowed by something even darker.

He leaned over your back, voice right in your ear.

“I won’t stop ‘til you can’t fucking walk.”

Then he did just that.

He bent you lower, fucked you deeper, ruined you so thoroughly you saw stars. Your thighs shook. Your voice went hoarse. He fucked you like he was mad at your soul.

And when you finally broke—when you came hard around his cock, sobbing his name into the leather—he didn’t let up. He chased his own release like it owed him blood, biting down on your shoulder as he emptied himself inside you.

He stayed there, breathing hard, sweat dripping from his temple onto your back.

Neither of you moved.

Because this? This wasn’t just sex. This was possession.

He didn’t pull away. Not when he came. Not when you sagged forward, limp and leaking, still braced over the back of the chair.

He didn’t move.

He stayed inside you—forehead resting between your shoulder blades, hands trembling where they clutched your hips. Still breathing you in like your skin was the only thing keeping him alive.

“Come here,” he whispered, eventually. “I’m not done.”

He didn’t say it like a threat this time.

He said it like a confession.

You let him guide you down to the floor. He didn’t rip your dress. He didn’t drag your body. He touched you with reverence now—laying you out flat, curling his big hand around your jaw like you were something he never thought he’d get to hold like this.

His eyes flicked down your body, dark with need but soft, too. Almost scared.

“I need you again,” he murmured, voice husky. “But not like before.”

You nodded, barely breathing. “Okay.”

His mouth met yours—slow, open, hot. His tongue licked into you like it missed you. Like it knew you.

And when he slid inside again, your body opened for him like you were made to take him. You moaned into the kiss, your hands curling around his shoulders, your legs spreading without thought.

It felt too good. Too deep. Too much.

His hips rolled, long and smooth, like he was trying to press his feelings into the walls of your body. Like he didn’t know how else to say it.

And then—his voice broke.

“I don’t know how to stop,” he whispered against your mouth. “You’ve ruined me.”

You blinked fast. The tightness in your chest suddenly unbearable.

“You were the one who started it,” you whispered.

“I know. And now I can’t breathe without you,” he said, thrusts picking up just enough to draw sharp moans from your throat. “I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t even look at you without losing my mind.”

You clutched at him. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because we’re best friends!” he groaned, fucking into you harder now, his emotions spilling through his thrusts. “Because I didn’t wanna fuck it up. But you—you drove me fucking insane.”

Your legs wrapped around his waist like you needed him to anchor you. His pace was messy now—frantic, like he couldn’t control it. Like he didn’t want to.

“You made me like this,” he breathed. “You made me need you. You knew what you were doing.”

“I didn’t know it’d go this far—”

“But it did.” He grabbed your hands and pinned them above your head, his forehead against yours, breath ragged. “Now I can’t get out.”

You were already crying.

He didn’t stop.

“Why do you keep doing this to me?” he whispered, voice breaking. “Why do you have to be everything to me?”

Your sob escaped, loud and sudden.

He froze, eyes wide. “Hey—hey…”

“I’m okay,” you whispered, tears streaming down your face, chest trembling. “I’m okay. I just—I love you.”

He choked. His whole body tensed above you.

You gasped when he started moving again—slow and deep and shaking.

“You love me?” he whispered like he didn’t believe it.

You nodded, lips brushing his. “I love you. I’ve loved you for so long it hurts.”

He fucked into you like that broke him. Like he’d been waiting years to hear it. He kissed you so hard you couldn’t breathe, hips rutting into yours with a need that felt like home and war all at once.

You came with your whole body.

Sobbing, shaking, clinging to him like if you let go, you’d die.

And he followed, groaning your name like it was a confession, like a vow.

He collapsed into your arms, heart pounding against yours, still buried deep inside.

You didn’t speak.

You just held each other, tears drying on hot skin, breath slowing.

For the first time—it wasn’t hate, It wasn’t lust, It was love, buried in the wreckage.

—

The air was thick with sweat and sex and silence.

Chan didn’t move. Not for a long time.

His body stayed curled around yours, one hand stroking your hip, the other tangled with your fingers above your head like he was scared to let go. His chest was still heaving, skin hot against yours.

But it was quiet now. And in that silence, there was no more hiding.

You turned your head, cheeks sticky with dried tears, eyes swollen.

“Chan…”

He looked down at you. His expression wrecked. Vulnerable in a way you’d never seen before.

“You meant it?” he asked softly. “What you said?”

You nodded, biting your lip. “Yeah. I meant it.”

He closed his eyes like it hurt. Like it healed him, too.

You traced a finger down his chest, voice small. “Did you?”

He opened his eyes again. “I don’t think there’s ever been a version of me that didn’t love you.”

Your throat closed up.

He leaned in, kissed the tip of your nose. The corner of your mouth. Your jaw. “I just didn’t know how to say it without losing you.”

You breathed him in. “And now?”

“Now I’ve already lost control,” he whispered, brushing hair from your face. “And I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to pretend we’re just friends.”

Your hand gripped his. “Then don’t.”

His eyes searched yours, desperate and soft all at once. “So what are we now?”

You swallowed, voice breaking. “Yours. If you want me.”

Chan let out the softest, most broken laugh. “I’ve always wanted you.”

He kissed you again—no lust, no pressure. Just quiet certainty.

And when he pulled you onto his chest, fingers drawing patterns across your back, it wasn’t about sex anymore. It was about belonging.

“Promise me we won’t run from this,” you whispered against his skin.

“I promise,” he said. “Even if it gets messy. Even if we fight again.”

You smiled faintly. “We definitely will.”

“Good,” he murmured, kissing your forehead. “Because I’m yours too. Every feral, possessive, jealous inch of me.”

You exhaled like you hadn’t breathed in years.

You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.

But for the first time… you both wanted to find out—together.

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Authors note: hi guys, so i extended the story a little more cos i couldn’t get enough of them and i felt part one was a bit unfinished.

If you enjoyed this, please leave comments and a like, i always look out for feedback! Thanks for reading and following! Love you guys!

[jakezzgirlz]

love love love Jake who knows he's being manipulative, trying to coax you into a quickie because he just wants you so bad, knowing damn well it won't be quick, but also knowing you couldn't say no to him when he gives you that look. Or when he tells you how he just wants to have fun with his pretty girlfriend, how's that a bad thing :((

ೀ TOOK ME 5 FUCKING DAYS IM SO SORRY :c i also kinda went off track... PLEASE INTERACT IF YOU ENJOY!!

ᝰ.ᐟwarnings ¡ DARK THEMES, coercion, verrrryy bad jakey, manipulation, painful sex, cervix fucking, possesive jake, jake is an insecure asshole, quickies uhhhh idk

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

He doesn't understand why you just cant be there for him when he needs you? He's always been there for you when you need to relieve some stress so why cant you be a good girlfriend and help him out? You'd guys would fuck like bunnies before but now you can barely spare 10 more minutes? Thoughts flood his head- maybe your not attracted to him anymore, or worse- maybe your seeing someone else. The thoughts plagued his mind even when he pushed them away because he cant stand the fact of you being with anyone else.

His fear of losing you warped into control, all because the idea of losing you was far more terrifying than the guilt of keeping you close by any means. Finding any way to claim you just to reassure himself that 'your not going''. You never even realized how you depend on jake. His voice calmed the noise in your head, and his presence was a kind of safety you couldn’t recreate on your own, jake knew you needed him, how much you depend and trust him. So he decides to use that to his advantage.

He'd disguise it as love, he’d isolate you gently, starting with casual comments like, "I just don’t think your friends really get you the way I do,” or "You always seem drained after seeing them—maybe you should take a break." Over time, you'd find yourself spending more time with just him, because it felt easier, safer. He’d play the role of your protector, framing himself as the only one who truly understood you, making you doubt your own judgment. When you were upset or anxious, not feeling energized enough for sex, just needing to rest. He’d flip it—“After everything I’ve done for you, and this is how you treat me?”— So you'd give in, letting him use your body no matter how sore or painful your core feels from his cock plunging deep, and filling you up with cum again and again.

Begging you before you leave to work for a quickie with his pleading eyes promising that he'll be quick. But behind those eyes is the need to claim you as his, to have you go outside with your pussy stuffed with cum-his cum.

Trying to talk to jake nowadays just turns to sex. Bringing up how you feel isolated and he will look at you crazy before he shrugs it off and kneels between your legs kissing you through your panties. Even when your pussy's still spasming and leaking out his cum- he'll make you miss the first half of your friends birthday party just to shove his cock down your throat... won't let you wash away the mascara that's running down your face.

At first, he might frame sex as a way to feel closer, saying things like, “I just want to be close to you. Isn’t that normal?” But soon, the choice would start to disappear. He’d push you past your comfort zone, brushing off hesitation with, “Why are you acting like this? Don’t you trust me?” or “You’re my girlfriend—you should want this too.” If you tried to set boundaries, he’d act wounded, withdrawn, or angry, forcing you to carry the emotional weight of “rejecting” him. Over time, sex would stop feeling like affection and start feeling like obligation—something she gave to keep the peace, to avoid conflict, or to prove her love. No longer taking his time with you, no more sweet words- just his cock bruising your insides-stretching you beyond belief, just his hands holding your head while he face fucks you. Looking at you with his beautiful brown eyes because he knows-you can't say no to him.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

likes, comments and reblogs appreciated !

[bradleysass]

fault - @rosekillermicrofic - wc: 614 - Schizophrenic! Barty

Barty had been standing in the kitchen for hours before Evan found him.

It was always the same wall. The one by the old pantry, where the wallpaper peeled up in one corner and the pipes groaned when it rained. Barty stared like it was whispering secrets only he could hear—his spine rigid, head tilted, fists trembling like he was caught between fight and freeze.

“Did it say something again?” Evan’s voice broke the silence like a balm, soft and steady. He didn’t need an answer. He already knew.

Barty twitched slightly at the sound, but didn’t look at him. “It said you’re going to leave.”

The same words, every time. Not always in the same order, not always from the same source. Sometimes it was the wall. Sometimes it was the fridge. Once, it was the cat Evan had never owned.

“It said you were done pretending. That you’re afraid of me now.”

Evan stepped closer, bare feet silent on the tile. “Barty,” he said quietly. “Look at me.”

It took a few seconds. But Barty turned, slow and unsure, his eyes blown wide with fear and something deeper—shame, maybe.

“I’m not pretending,” Evan said. “I’ve never pretended with you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

“But—” Barty swallowed hard, words catching like thorns. “But what if I hurt you? What if I forget what’s real and—what if next time I’m not just talking to the wall?”

Evan didn’t flinch. “Then I’ll remind you. I’ll bring you back. Every time.”

Barty’s knees buckled. He crumpled to the floor like a marionette with cut strings, hands clutching at his hair. Evan went down with him, wrapping his arms around him and pulling Barty into his chest.

The shaking was worse now. Deep and full-body, like he was trying to shake off something embedded in his skin.

“I hate this,” Barty whispered. “I hate not knowing. I hate being scared of my own mind.”

Evan pressed his lips to Barty’s temple, not in a kiss, just a grounding touch. “I know. I know, love.”

“I keep thinking maybe this time it’ll get worse. That I’ll lose more of me and I won’t notice until it’s too late.”

“You’re still here,” Evan whispered. “Right now. With me. That’s what matters.”

“But what if one day I’m not?”

Evan pulled back enough to look him in the eyes. “Then I’ll wait. However long it takes. And I’ll be right here when you come back.”

Tears welled up in Barty’s eyes, and he shook his head like he didn’t believe it, like it hurt more to be loved than to be feared.

“It’s okay, B,” Evan said again, more gently this time, thumb brushing beneath Barty’s eye to catch the tear before it could fall. “It’s not your fault. None of it is.”

Barty broke.

Not in the violent, dramatic way people always expected from him. Not like his father had warned, with broken windows and screams. No, this break was quiet. A single sob into Evan’s shoulder. A shattered breath. Fingers curling into his shirt like he was the last stable thing in a world built on fault lines.

They stayed like that on the cold floor until the sky began to lighten.

Eventually, Barty spoke again, barely audible. “Do you ever wish it was someone else? Someone… easier?”

Evan smiled into his hair. “That would be boring.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“No,” Evan said, pulling back just enough to tilt Barty’s face up. “I’m just yours.”

Barty laughed. It was thin, hoarse, tired—but real. He closed his eyes and leaned into Evan’s touch like he’d been waiting all night for that exact moment.

[otaku553]

What kind of advice would you give someone who just started drawing feom zero? I think starting can be kind of intimidating.

This is more emotional advice, but I think a lot of people who give up drawing start with high expectations for themselves. Especially the older you get and more refined your vision gets, the more it feels like the gap between your skill and your vision is insurmountable. It’ll probably take time to get to a point where you feel comfortable and happy with something you’ve drawn, and that is fine and natural! Give yourself that time and keep trying :)

Another end of this is that it’s a lot easier to keep trying when you’re drawing things that you want to draw. When learning there’s a balance between doing what you think is fun and what sources will tell you are good for building up skill quickly. I think that focusing on building up the skill for the sake of the skill is a very quick way to get burnt out however, and would recommend drawing things that you want to draw first and foremost.

I want to note also that creating for yourself means not comparing your art to other people’s art. It’s instinctual, and a very hard habit to break, but the more you consider your own art as having inherent value to yourself because you drew it and nobody else, the easier it is to keep drawing past the fear that you aren’t good enough at it.

Cannot iterate enough: DONT TRY TO FREEHAND MUCH WHEN YOURE JUST BEGINNING

You learn by practicing and if you practice undirected then maybe eventually you’ll get to a good point but! It is soooo much easier to make something you enjoy and get the satisfaction and motivation to keep drawing if you reference until you build up enough muscle memory and instinct to draw on your own. This is not to say that you should not try to freehand at all, but freehanding with no reference early on is I think is more useful as a test of your current skills than as additive and effective practice/improvement.

I would begin with copying by sight, as that’s generally how you train the alignment of your vision with your hands. Hand eye coordination? Is it called that? Just try taking common household objects and drawing them on a page, or even try with an anime screenshot (I did this a lot when I was learning!) tracing is another way that you can learn to build up this coordination but I consider it to be another training wheel on top of copying, not interchangeable with copying by eye.

I consider referencing to be when you get to a point where you draw what you’re already seeing from different angles and in new environments! Think of drawing a face from a different angle or clothes around a different pose. Referencing is something every artist does and something you should not be afraid to do!

Finally, take these advices with a grain of salt! I’m not a professional in any way, this is just what I think would have helped me to hear when I was younger.

[salmonballsss]

The Violet Hour

(Chapter 11)

You are a young, awkward historian obsessed with the Salem witch trials. One name repeats through obscure documents: Agatha Harkness. She's not supposed to exist anymore. But when you find a book authored in her name and follow the trail to a remote New England town, you're met with a woman who looks nothing like she belongs in your century—and who wants absolutely nothing to do with you…

Word Count: 12k

Warnings: Blood, Drinking.

You pushed yourself off the couch and followed after her, finding Agatha already halfway through pulling things out for dinner. A loaf of bread thudded onto the counter, a block of cheese, a can of tomato soup spinning once before she caught it lazily with one hand.

You hovered awkwardly in the doorway for a second. Watching her. It wasn’t fair, the way she made even rummaging through a pantry look good. “What?” she said without looking up. “Afraid you’ll catch something if you step into the kitchen?"

You scoffed and crossed your arms. "Just wondering when you became so domestic. Should I be expecting a pie next?"

Agatha finally glanced over her shoulder, a smirk tugging at her lips. "You’re lucky you’re injured," she said dryly, "or I’d make you churn the butter by hand."

You snorted and stepped into the kitchen fully, leaning your hip against the counter. "Churn the butter? What are you, ninety?"

Agatha gave a small, mock gasp and clutched the can of soup to her chest dramatically. "You wound me," she said, flashing you a look over the rim of her glasses. The worst part was—she almost pulled it off. She almost made you feel bad.

Almost.

You tilted your head, giving her your best unimpressed stare. "Oh, please. You’re fine. Besides..." you added, grinning a little, "if you can survive my ‘stupid old ghost towns and witch obsession,’ I think you can survive a little sass."

Agatha quirked an eyebrow at you, setting the can down with a soft thunk . "You know," she said, voice lilting just enough to be dangerous, "you were smiling pretty hard when you were talking to Billy."

You froze for half a second. She noticed. Of course she noticed.

"And yet," Agatha continued, casually pulling a knife from the drawer and starting to slice the bread, "you never smile like that for me."

You blinked. Actually blinked. Did she just—? "You’re pouting," you blurted out before you could stop yourself.

Agatha’s slicing slowed for a fraction of a second. She glanced sideways at you, her mouth pressed into a line that might, maybe, almost have been a tiny little pout.

"I am not pouting," she said flatly.

You grinned, chest warming in a way that had nothing to do with the fact the stove was now on. "You totally are. Don’t worry. It's cute."

Agatha scoffed, tossing a slice of bread onto the pan with a little more force than necessary. "Cute," she muttered. "If I’d known surviving a hellbeast just meant getting mocked in my own house, I would’ve left you to bleed out."

You just shrugged, the sass coming easier now than it ever had before. "Well," you said, lifting a brow, "maybe if you were actually funny, I’d smile more."

Agatha set the knife down slowly, then turned to face you fully, leaning back against the counter with her arms folded. She gave you a long, slow once over—head to toe—like she was deciding exactly how much she was going to make you pay for that.

You stared right back, refusing to be the first one to break.

For a second, you were sure she was about to launch some scathing, perfectly delivered comeback that would make you regret ever opening your mouth.

Instead Her lips twitched. And she smiled.

Not a smirk. Not a grin.

A smile. 

Soft. Real.

And way, way worse. Your stomach flipped traitorously. "You’re getting cocky," Agatha said, pushing herself off the counter and turning back to the stove.

You shrugged again, heart hammering a little too hard. "Someone’s gotta keep you humble."

Agatha chuckled low under her breath, flipping the sandwich expertly in the pan. "Careful, sweetheart," she said. "You keep talking like that, I might actually start to like you."

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but all that came out was a strangled sort of ha, which only made her laugh harder.

You turned your attention to the soup simmering quietly on the stove, trying very hard not to combust on the spot.

Maybe you were injured. Maybe you had black veins crawling across your side. Maybe you were stuck in a house with a woman who made your stomach do backflips with a single look. 

But at least, for tonight, it felt like you might survive it. Maybe. If you were lucky.

You tried to ignore the fluttering in your chest, instead focusing on the pot of soup that had been bubbling away for far too long. You couldn’t let her get under your skin—not now, not when she was standing there looking like she was plotting some devilish move, a smirk playing on her lips as she turned the sandwich once more.

"What's the matter?" Agatha’s voice cut through the air again, a teasing lilt that made you tense up. "Cat got your tongue? Or are you just enjoying the view?" She gave you a sidelong glance, her eyes twinkling with the mischievous glint that had become all too familiar.

You couldn’t help it—you smirked, folding your arms across your chest as you leaned against the counter. "You really think you’re that charming, huh?"

Agatha’s eyebrow arched in an exaggerated fashion, her gaze sweeping over you. "I don't think it, darling. I know it."

You rolled your eyes, playing it off like it didn’t affect you. "Please. The last time I checked, you were just making sandwiches."

“Making sandwiches?” Agatha's voice went all offended as she flipped the sandwich once again, the crispy edges beginning to darken to perfection. "Excuse me, but I do believe this is more than a sandwich. This is a masterpiece."

You raised an eyebrow. "A masterpiece? It’s bread and some cheese."

She smirked, spinning around to face you fully now, her hands resting on the edge of the counter. "Don’t knock my culinary skills."

"Oh, I’m sure it’s delicious, " you teased, the corner of your lips twitching upward. "But are you sure you’re the one who’s cooking it? I’m starting to think you summoned a demon for this meal. Maybe that’s why it’s so… perfect ."

Agatha’s eyes narrowed slightly, but the smile never left her face. "You really are something else, aren’t you?" Her voice was low now, like she was both amused and intrigued. "Maybe you should be careful. I don’t like it when people test my patience."

You leaned in, lowering your voice to match hers, though there was a playful spark in your eye. "What are you going to do? Cast a spell on me?"

"Is that a challenge?" Agatha's lips curled in that dangerous little smirk, the one that made your stomach flip every time she did it.

You held her gaze for a beat longer than you intended, the words on your tongue slipping out before you could stop them. "Maybe I’d like to see what kind of spell you’d cast."

Her eyes darkened, just the slightest flicker of something dangerous dancing behind them. For a second, the tension between the two of you thickened, as if the air was electric with unsaid words. But then, in a blink, it was gone. Agatha broke the stare with a chuckle, turning back to the stove.

"Perhaps another time," she said, not missing a beat. "Now, go sit down. You’re distracting me."

You fought the urge to grin like an idiot, instead choosing to play it cool, even if every nerve in your body was buzzing. "Fine," you muttered, crossing the kitchen to the dining room table. It was hard to ignore how her gaze followed you for a fraction of a second, but you did your best.

You took a seat, eyes flicking between Agatha and the food, your thoughts still swirling with that last moment of tension.

Agatha joined you moments later, placing the perfectly grilled sandwiches on the table along with a steaming bowl of soup. The scent hit your senses like a wall—earthy, warm, and, for some reason, comforting. She sat across from you with a satisfied look on her face as she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"Go ahead," she said, her tone nonchalant. "You were so eager to test my culinary prowess. It’s only fair you get to taste it first."

You didn’t need to be told twice. The smell was too enticing, and your stomach growled as you picked up your sandwich, taking a cautious bite.

The crunch was perfect. The cheese—melty and sharp. The bread—golden and crispy. You could feel your eyes close in pleasure at the first taste, and you couldn’t stop the hum of approval that slipped from your lips.

"Okay," you admitted, grinning despite yourself. "I’ll give it to you. This is actually really good."

Agatha leaned back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest, her smug expression returning. "I told you." Her gaze dropped to your half finished sandwich as you continued eating, and her voice dropped, becoming teasing once more. "Now, do I have to convince you to keep complimenting me, or is that the last one you’re getting for tonight?"

You swallowed your bite, raising your eyebrows. "I’m not that easy."

"Oh, I know," she replied with a wink, her tone low and knowing. "That’s what makes it all the more fun."

The banter between you both continued, light and easy, as the meal stretched on. Agatha had a way of drawing you in, her dry wit and sharp tongue making it hard to tell where playful teasing ended and something deeper, more dangerous, began. The quiet between you wasn’t awkward; it was charged, like the kind of tension you could cut with a knife if you wanted to. But neither of you said anything more about it. Instead, the evening drifted on, filled with laughter and that soft, familiar spark of something unspoken.

And for once, it felt normal. A brief escape from the whirlwind of supernatural chaos that seemed to always follow you around lately. Just two people—sharing a meal, teasing each other over sandwiches and soup, sitting side by side in a comfortable rhythm that made you forget about everything else.

Well, almost everything. The back of your mind still couldn't shake the feeling that you were being played, that something was happening beneath the surface that you couldn't fully understand. And yet, despite it all, you couldn't stop the small part of you that wanted to stay.

That wanted to see just how far Agatha would take this.

"Don’t look at me like that," Agatha said suddenly, her voice soft but sharp all the same, pulling you out of your thoughts. "You’re looking at me like you’re trying to figure me out."

You blinked, feigning innocence. "I’m not looking at you like anything."

Her gaze didn’t falter. "Oh, but you are. Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’ll figure me out in time."

There it was again—the mystery, the teasing, the promise of something more.

And just like that, the playful bickering resumed, with Agatha throwing another small comment in your direction, and you tossing it right back.

The evening would end. But for now, this moment—this quiet, complicated, messy, delicious moment—was enough to let you forget that you were tangled in a web you couldn’t yet see the edges of.

---

Dinner had passed in a blur of soft clinking, low murmured insults, and the occasional dramatic sigh from you whenever Agatha corrected how you cut your grilled cheese. It had been easy. Too easy. Almost normal. Agatha had smirked through half the meal, rolled her eyes at you the other half. You’d bickered lightly. She’d teased you about your terrible posture at the table. You’d called her a tyrant for insisting you eat the crusts.

And somehow… the world outside didn’t seem to matter for a little while.

But that was hours ago.

The clock on the guest room nightstand blinked 12:13 AM in soft, unbothered red light. You rolled over under the covers, staring at the dark ceiling. Sleep wouldn’t come. Your side ached dully, but it wasn’t just that.

It was the feeling. The buzzing. The wrongness under your skin. Something was off, you could feel it like an electric charge crawling up your spine. The air in the room seemed too thick, as if it were pressing in on you from all sides. The quiet, which you once found comforting, now felt suffocating. There was a tightness in your chest, and the shadows in the room seemed darker, denser, almost as if they were breathing.

You closed your eyes tighter, forcing your breathing to even out. Maybe it was just nerves. Maybe it was the strain of the last few days catching up to you. But that was when you heard it.

A tap.

Sharp. Deliberate. A sound that sliced through the suffocating quiet.

You froze, heart thudding painfully against your ribs. You listened, straining to hear anything else, but there was nothing.

Another tap.

The sound was louder now. Thicker. It almost felt like it was coming from inside the walls.

And then, there was a third tap. No, a scrape .

Your breath caught in your throat. No. No, no—you were imagining it. You were overtired. Stressed. It was nothing. You pressed your palm flat against your chest, trying to calm your racing heartbeat.

But then— A whisper. Not outside. Inside. 

It was low, crawling under the door, slipping around the edges of the walls like some dark fog. A coldness swept over you, the kind of cold that felt like it was burrowing deep into your bones.

Your heart pounded in your chest. The feeling of being watched. The sensation of eyes on you, unseen.

You bolted upright, gasping for air, the breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. The tapping grew louder, faster. Scraping now. Something— dragging —across the glass. It wasn’t the wind. It wasn’t an animal. It was something else. Something deliberate.

You twisted in bed, eyes wide, scanning the window in the dark. And then your blood ran cold.

The vines were There. Thick, dark tendrils slowly crawled up the outside of the house, their shapes twisted and unnatural against the pale moonlight. They were visible, creeping up the sides of the house with a sinister deliberation, like they were searching for something—or someone.

No. Not the vines. Not now.

You clutched your side, feeling the black veins pulse beneath your skin, each beat like an echo of something darker, older. A tremor ran through you. The ache was getting worse, gnawing at the edges of your thoughts, but it was the vines—the whisper—that tore your focus away.

They twitched, sliding closer to the window. You could almost hear them, feel their scraping against the glass, inching toward you with a low, unnatural hiss.

Get out of here, you thought, but you couldn’t move.

Fuck this.

You couldn’t stay in this room. Not with those things outside, not with that whisper slithering around the walls.

You forced yourself to stand, your side burning with each movement. You stumbled, unsteady on your feet, and ripped open the door, slamming it behind you with more force than you intended. The hallway stretched out before you, dark and quiet as always.

You half ran, half limped across the creaky floorboards, desperate to find something, someone . You reached Agatha’s door, a wave of dread crashing over you. Your knuckles trembled as you raised your hand to knock. But then you paused.

The door was slightly ajar.

A cold shiver ran up your spine.

You nudged it open with your fingertips, stepping into the room slowly, the hairs on the back of your neck prickling.

Empty.

The bed was neatly made, untouched since the afternoon. No sign of her. No sign of anything. Just the emptiness of the room, the oppressive quiet.

Panic clenched around your chest, a tightness that made it hard to breathe. Your eyes darted around the room, searching for any hint of Agatha, anything that could explain this. But there was nothing.

And then, from somewhere deeper in the house, you heard it. The scraping sound again. Faint but distinct. Coming from the guest room. The vines.

The whispering.

Something was in the house. You could feel it, the malevolent presence of it. Your heart hammered against your ribs as your breathing quickened.

You spun around, your feet carrying you down the hall with a frantic desperation, each step echoing too loudly in the silence. Your thoughts spun in a panic as you reached the guest room door again. The whisper was louder now, rising from behind the door. It sounded like a voice— no, multiple voices , murmuring in a language you couldn’t understand.

You slowly, carefully, pushed the door open, every muscle in your body screaming at you to turn back. But you couldn’t. Not now. Not with that scraping sound dragging against your nerves.

The room was dark, the only light coming from the sliver of moon outside. And that’s when you saw it.

The vines, slick and black, crawled with deliberate malice across the walls. They twisted like living things, slow but certain in their approach, wrapping themselves around the furniture, the bedposts, the corners of the room. They weren’t just creeping —they were searching . As if they were alive and they knew exactly what they were looking for.

And the blood.

It wasn’t just leaking anymore. It was pouring .

The slow, rhythmic drip-drip-drip from the ceiling had become a cacophony, the drops thick and slow like a countdown to something awful. The blood pooled beneath you, dark and viscous, swallowing the floor, turning the wood into something unrecognizable.

You could feel it now. The air was alive with tension . You could feel something creeping up your spine, a presence—no, a force —gathering in the room. You weren’t alone. You never had been.

The whispers had stopped for a moment, but their presence lingered like a terrible weight in the room. You could hear them even though they were silent now. You could feel them. A soft brush against your mind, slithering, twisting into your thoughts, pulling at the edges of your sanity.

Come closer… 

The voice called your name, but it wasn’t just one voice anymore. It was hundreds—thousands—murmuring, a choir of darkness whispering through your skin. Their breath was like ice against your ear. You could feel them— feel them —everywhere, crawling up the walls, pressing in on you.

It wasn’t just the vines. It was something in the house. Something inside you. The house knew you. And it was calling you.

A sudden, sharp screeching sound made you flinch—like the sound of nails dragged across glass, jagged and grating. You twisted around, your heart leaping into your throat.

Outside, through the window, you saw it.

A figure.

A shadow, barely visible at the edge of your vision, but it was there . You could see the outline—tall, thin, blacker than the night, standing motionless, staring through the glass at you. You couldn’t make out any details, but you felt its gaze. Like it was watching you.

It was a figure you knew, but it couldn’t be. It was just a shadow, a flickering silhouette against the dark wilderness outside. It wasn’t human.

It wasn’t human. 

The wilderness beyond the window seemed to come alive, pulsing with a life of its own, reaching toward the house. The trees in the distance moved , their twisted limbs stretching, almost pointing , as if the earth itself was calling to the figure. The trees whispered with voices—low, guttural murmurs—and the wind carried their words like a song sung backward.

Your breath caught in your throat. The forest —it wasn’t just the house. It was the land. It was all part of it. The figure outside wasn’t just some person. It was a part of this place, something ancient, something that had always been here.

The trees groaned under the weight of something far darker than any storm. The shadows in the woods flickered and swayed like they were alive, their movements too quick, too unnatural. The whispering grew louder, more insistent.

Come closer… 

You couldn’t take it anymore. The blood on the floor, the vines wrapping tighter, the black figure outside. Your heart raced, pounding so hard in your chest you thought it would crack your ribs. You turned toward the door, hands trembling as you reached for the handle, but the vines moved faster now— too fast —wrapping around the doorframe, pulling it shut with a force you couldn’t hope to fight.

The door slammed shut in your face, sending a shock through your body that rattled your bones.

No.

No! 

Your heart pounded, panic surging through you. You pushed at the door, your hands slick with cold sweat, but it wouldn’t budge. The vines hissed, their tendrils slithering across the wood like snakes, twisting and gnashing. And then, from behind you, the blood— it was moving —as though the room was alive. The dark liquid seemed to swirl, pulling toward the center, forming shapes. Distorted, twitching shapes.

And then, just as you thought you might drown in it, the shape of a hand emerged from the blood. Thin, skeletal fingers reaching toward you.

The whispering came again, and this time it wasn’t soft.

It was loud , suffocating, tearing through your mind. They were everywhere now , inside you, filling your ears, crawling through your skin, making you feel them in your very bones.

Come closer. Join us. 

The shadows outside the window grew darker, their shapes stretching toward you, thick and hungry, clawing at the glass, trying to get inside. The figure in the wilderness moved, a sharp motion like a predator.

It’s waiting for you. 

It wasn’t just a voice now. The earth was speaking, too. The trees outside, the floor beneath your feet—they were all alive , murmuring in a language you didn’t understand, pulling at the threads of your sanity, urging you to listen.

The blood was growing, spilling over the sides of the bed now, rushing across the floor in a thick, pulsing wave. You stumbled backward, slipping on the slick surface, barely catching yourself before you hit the wall. The whispers pressed in on you, suffocating, and the darkness in the room deepened.

A scream built in your throat, but it wouldn’t come. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Your eyes were wide, locked on the bloody shape moving toward you on the floor.

And then—the door behind you creaked. Slowly, agonizingly slow, as though it had been waiting for you to turn.

No… Your brain screamed at you to move, to run, but you couldn’t.

It was already too late.

The shadow outside the window— it moved toward you .

You felt a sudden chill, the kind that went all the way down to your soul. The thing outside wasn’t waiting anymore. It was coming. It was going to get you .

They had you.

The blood seemed to pulse, the shadows seemed to twist with a life of their own, and every inch of you screamed to flee. Agatha . You had to get to her. She was the only thing between you and this madness, the only thing that might save you from whatever was happening in this house.

Your legs trembled, barely able to support you, but you didn’t care. You slammed your hands against the door, pushing against the vines that had wrapped around it, pulling them back with more force than you thought you could muster. They hissed and screeched like living things, fighting against your grip. Your fingers burned with cold, the feeling of them crawling under your skin, but you didn’t stop. You yanked, pulled, slammed the door until the vines snapped under your strength.

You burst into the hallway, gasping for air, your heartbeat thrumming in your ears as you staggered down the hall. The walls felt like they were closing in, the floor beneath your feet like it was shifting, trying to pull you into the darkness below. The temperature in the house had dropped, an icy chill seeping into your bones. You could almost feel the breath of something cold on the back of your neck, but you didn’t dare look behind you.

You couldn’t.

Agatha’s voice echoed in your mind. Get to Agatha . It was the only thing that mattered now.

The stairs were a blur beneath you as you stumbled and sprinted down them, barely avoiding tripping over the wooden steps. Every corner of the house seemed to be alive now, groaning, whispering—like the house itself was waiting, watching, hunting you.

You hit the bottom of the stairs, breathing in sharp gasps, your eyes darting around the darkened living room. The fire that had been burning earlier was now reduced to dying embers, casting long, flickering shadows that seemed to stretch and twist unnaturally. Every shadow seemed to stretch too long. Every corner of the house seemed darker than it should be. You rounded the corner into the living room— And stumbled to a halt.

There, sprawled casually across the green couch, laptop balanced on her knees, was Agatha. She had one hand curled lazily around a glass of wine, her glasses sliding slightly down her nose as she scrolled through something on the screen. She looked up at you slowly. Raised an eyebrow.

"Midnight jog?" she asked dryly.

You stood there, panting, trembling, still half expecting something monstrous to come tearing through the windows after you. Agatha clicked her laptop shut and set it aside, studying you more closely now.

Your shaking hands. Your wild eyes. Your heaving chest.

Her amusement slipped a little. Not gone. But... muted. "Hey," she said, voice softer now. She set the wine glass down carefully on the coffee table. "Come here."

You hesitated.

Another whisper curled through your mind. Something tugging at your ribs, pulling wrong. You stumbled forward anyway, unable to stop yourself.

Agatha caught your wrist gently when you got close enough, tugging you down onto the couch beside her. You collapsed more than sat. "Talk," she ordered.

You opened your mouth—but nothing came out except a broken breath. Agatha shifted closer, her hands surprisingly warm against your wrist and the small of your back, grounding you.

You clenched your fists. "The window," you rasped finally. "There was... tapping. And vines. And whispers."

Agatha’s face darkened immediately. She didn’t scoff this time. Didn’t mock. "Where?" she asked, already standing. You pointed vaguely upstairs, the muscles in your arm trembling.

"Guest room window," you whispered.

Agatha didn’t hesitate. She moved across the room in two strides, grabbed something off the mantle—something small and silver—and tucked it into her sleeve.

You didn’t ask. You weren’t sure you wanted to know.

"Stay here," she said, her voice edged with something unfamiliar. Not anger. Not fear.

Resolve. 

You stayed rooted to the couch as she disappeared up the stairs, your heart pounding painfully. You heard her footsteps. The creak of the guest room door. Silence.

And then—

A low, thudding noise against the walls. Something heavy dragging. You flinched back instinctively, curling tighter into yourself. Another thud.

Then a hiss—like steam escaping, only wetter. Thicker.

Agatha's voice, low and sharp, barking something you couldn't understand. The air vibrated. The floor under your feet hummed. You squeezed your eyes shut.

The memory of the vines snaking up the window, the feeling of the black veins in your side pulsing, the voice whispering your name in a dozen wrong languages at once—

It all slammed into you. You pressed your hands over your ears, trying to block it out.

You didn't know how long you stayed there. Minutes? Hours? The clock on the wall ticked steadily, oblivious to your spiraling panic.

When you finally heard footsteps coming back down the stairs, you nearly cried in relief. Agatha appeared, looking slightly... rumpled.

Her sleeves were rolled up now. Her hair was a little messier. And there was a faint streak of something—dust? ash?—on her forearm. She crossed the room and crouched in front of you. "You okay?" she asked, and for once, there was no sarcasm. No teasing. Just concern.

You nodded shakily, though you didn’t feel okay at all. Agatha studied you for a moment longer, then sighed, scrubbing a hand over her face. "It wasn’t real," she said finally. "The vines. The whispers. Whatever you saw."

You blinked at her, confused. "What?"

 Agatha tapped your side lightly—right over where the black veins were etched under your skin. "It’s your wound," she said. "It’s... leaking. For lack of a better word." You stared at her blankly. Agatha pressed her lips into a thin line, clearly trying to choose her words carefully.

"The creature you summoned," she said slowly, "its mark is still inside you. It left of piece of itself in you… and  the piece that's left is feeding you fear. Making you see things."

Your stomach twisted painfully. "So... I'm going crazy?"

Agatha gave a small, tired laugh. "No, sweetheart," she said. "You’re just... haunted."

Haunted. 

Like that was somehow supposed to be better. You let your head drop into your hands, breathing hard.

Agatha sat beside you again, close enough that her thigh brushed yours, her body warm and steady against your side. "You’re not alone," she said quietly. You didn’t know if she meant here, in the house—or in the fight still ahead. Maybe both.

You let yourself lean into her just a little. Just enough to feel the solidness of her against you. For tonight, at least, you could pretend that was enough. You stayed curled against the arm of the couch for a while, breathing slowly, letting the tremor in your chest settle.

Agatha didn’t hover, which somehow made it easier. She stayed seated at the other end, her wine glass dangling between two fingers, half-watching you, half-watching the windows. The storm outside—or whatever you wanted to call it—had calmed. No vines. No tapping. Just a chilly, restless night.

After a minute, you pushed yourself upright, heart still pounding but not wild anymore, and crossed to the nearest window. You stood there for a second, arms crossed, staring out into the garden.

Nothing but darkness and the faint outline of trees. "You expecting to see something?" Agatha’s voice was dry behind you, but there was a warmth to it too. Something lighter.

You shrugged. "Just making sure the house isn’t about to get... eaten, or something." You heard the faint clink of glass as she tipped her wine to her lips again. "You’re very dramatic, you know that?"

You huffed a little, giving the garden one last suspicious glance before turning back to her. "Forgive me for not being totally chill after hallucinating demon vines."

Agatha made a tsk sound under her breath, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. You flopped back onto the couch, breathing out hard. She sipped from her glass again, lazy, slow, like she had all the time in the world.

You watched her for a moment. Then—without thinking—you blurted "Can I have some?"

Agatha arched a brow, swirling the wine in her glass. "I don’t think mixing whatever black plague you’ve got with alcohol is a doctor approved plan," she said dryly.

You rolled your eyes. "I’m fine. It's one glass."

She kept swirling the wine. The corners of her mouth curved upward. "And," she added, "are you even old enough, pet?"

You sputtered, sitting up straighter. "I’m twenty four!" Agatha laughed— actually laughed—a low, throaty sound that warmed your skin faster than the fire in the hearth.

"Alright, alright," she said, pushing herself off the couch. She moved a little slower than usual, which was the first real sign that the wine was hitting her harder than she was letting on.

You watched her go to the kitchen, grab another glass—something smaller, less fancy—and pour you a careful half glass of wine. She brought it back and handed it to you with a little flourish.

"There. One scandalous drink," she said. "Try not to die on my couch." You stuck your tongue out at her and took a sip. It was better than you expected—warm and rich, the taste blooming across your tongue. Agatha reclaimed her spot next to you, sitting sideways on the couch, one leg bent up, glass cradled loosely in her hand.

The room felt softer now. Dimmer. Like the night had shrunk down to just the two of you. You took another sip, feeling the tension in your chest ease a little more.

"So," you said, trying for casual and probably failing miserably, "what do you do all day? Besides feed injured historians and critique their posture?"

Agatha tilted her head, considering. "Would you believe me if I said gardening?"

You blinked. "...Honestly? No."

Agatha laughed again, leaning her head against the back of the couch. "Smart girl," she murmured. "Gardening’s more of a side hobby."

You sipped your wine, emboldened by the warmth spreading through your veins. "Okay, then. What’s your main hobby? Mysterious woman of Hollow Wood?"

Agatha smiled slowly, lazily, like she was weighing how much she wanted to say. "I collect things," she said finally. You raised an eyebrow. "Books?" you guessed, thinking of the study.

She nodded, taking another long drink. "And artifacts," she added. "Oddities. Stories people forget about."

You tilted your head. "That’s... actually kind of cool."

Agatha chuckled under her breath, looking at you over the rim of her glass. "I thought you’d approve. Little miss history major." You blushed, fiddling with the stem of your glass.

"I’m writing about the witch trials," you muttered, like she didn’t already know. Agatha’s eyes gleamed in the low light. "I know." You grumbled. Of course she knew she just help you with it earlier today! You about faceplamed but you fear that would've just been worse.

There was a beat of silence, and for a moment, you just watched each other. Then you cleared your throat, desperate for something— anything —to break the tension curling between you.

"Alright," you said, sitting up a little straighter. "What else do you do? Any hobbies that don’t make you sound like a haunted museum curator?"

Agatha grinned, lazy and slow. "I can cook."

You gave her a look. "Grilled cheese doesn’t count."

"It does if you make it right," she shot back, mock offended. You laughed into your glass, warmth blooming in your chest. God, this was... nice. Weird. But nice.

"You’re not what I expected," you said before you could stop yourself. Agatha tilted her head. "Oh? And what exactly were you expecting?" 

You shrugged, cheeks burning. "I don’t know… some recluse scary writer, I guess."

Agatha smiled, slow and sharp. "You think I’m not scary?" You opened your mouth. Closed it. Took another drink. She laughed, low and smug, and set her glass down on the coffee table. You stared at her for a second, the words slipping out before you could catch them. "I think you’re... complicated."

Agatha’s smile faltered for just a second. Not gone. Just... softer. She leaned back, studying you like you were a puzzle she hadn’t decided whether to solve or leave broken. "You’re not wrong," she said finally, voice quieter now.

You sipped your wine, heart pounding a little harder than before. "You’re complicated too," Agatha added after a beat, and somehow it sounded like a compliment.

You smiled, tucking your knees up against your chest. Another minute of silence stretched between you—comfortable now, somehow. The wine was buzzing pleasantly under your skin, loosening the stiffness from your muscles, from your tongue.

You fiddled with the rim of your glass, feeling the warmth spread lower, sinking into your chest, your thighs. The edges of the room went soft and golden, like a painting you couldn't quite look at directly.

"You’re staring," Agatha said lazily.

You blinked, realizing you were, in fact, staring at her—at the slope of her neck, the careless way her sweater slipped off one shoulder, the slow, languid twirl of wine in her glass.

You coughed into your hand, mortified.

"I think you’re a bit drunk, Ms. Harkness," you muttered, trying to sound braver than you felt.

Agatha tilted her head, a wicked glint in her eye.

"Don't call me that," she said, voice dropping into something low and dangerous.

Your breath caught.

"It makes me feel old," she added, sipping her wine like she wasn’t slowly skinning you alive with her words. You tucked your knees closer, trying to hide the way your thighs pressed together, the way a sudden throb deep in your core made your breath stutter. There it was again—that pull. The heat. The ache.

You looked at her through your lashes, your voice a little smaller now.

"...Should I call you Agatha, then?" You joke softly.

The way she smiled made your skin prickle. "Agatha's fine," she said, swirling her wine lazily. "Unless you want to call me something else." You choked on your drink, coughing violently into your sleeve. Agatha just laughed, the sound low and teasing. God, she was dangerous. Absolutely, mind numbingly dangerous.

"You’re evil," you said hoarsely, setting your glass down before you could embarrass yourself further.

She just smiled wider, looking so goddamn smug. "You’re not the first to accuse me of that," she said, voice syrupy.

You pressed your hand to your forehead, groaning dramatically. "I’m too drunk for this."

"You’re barely tipsy," Agatha teased. She leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees, glass dangling from her fingers.

Her eyes found yours again. Caught. Held. "You’re cute when you’re flustered," she said, almost conversationally, like it was just a fact. Heat flooded your face—and lower. Your cunt clenched again, desperate and aching, as if your body wanted to betray you completely.

You hated it.

You loved it.

You looked away, trying to pretend you weren’t seconds from losing your mind. "You’re mean," you muttered.

"I’m honest," Agatha corrected, sitting back against the couch, looking terribly pleased with herself. You exhaled slowly, trying to steady your racing heart.

"Seriously though," you said after a moment, voice still a little shaky. "How old are you?"

Agatha tilted her head again, considering you like she might eat you whole. "Older than you’d think," she said finally, voice smooth as silk.

You narrowed your eyes, pushing back, emboldened by the wine. "That’s not an answer."

Agatha’s smile grew wider, almost fond. Almost dangerous.

"It’s the only answer you’re getting," she said, taking a slow sip from her glass, eyes never leaving yours.

You stared at her.

You weren't imagining it.The way she spoke. The way she moved.  The way she always seemed slightly out of time, like she belonged to another era entirely.

You shifted in your seat, suddenly hyperaware of the wet heat pooling in your underwear. Agatha’s gaze flickered down—barely noticeable—then back up. You swallowed hard. The tension crackled between you, thin and sharp and so damn close to snapping.

"You’re not... like, a hundred, are you?" you asked, voice lighter than you felt.

Agatha laughed, low and dark. "Would it bother you if I was?" she asked, tilting her head to the side, eyes gleaming.

Your mouth opened. Closed. You had no idea what to say. She laughed again, softer this time, and reached for the bottle, topping off both your glasses without asking. You took yours with shaking fingers. Agatha clinked her glass lightly against yours, the touch lingering for half a second too long.

"To curiosity," she said, voice dipped in velvet.

You swallowed and echoed her.

"To curiosity."

You both drank. The air between you buzzing now— live wire tight. Agatha leaned back again, stretching like a cat, sweater riding up just enough to flash a strip of bare stomach.

You swallowed so hard it hurt.

"So," Agatha said, studying you with that lazy, predatory amusement. "You’re staying for three more days, hm?"

You nodded, trying not to look directly at the bare skin she wasn't even trying to hide. "That was the plan."

Agatha hummed, tapping her glass against her knee. "Shame," she said, almost idly. "You’re just starting to get interesting."

You blinked, your brain short-circuiting.

"I've been interesting," you said, too quickly, too defensively.

Agatha laughed, eyes sparkling. "Mm. Debatable," she said, but there was no bite in it.

Only... fondness. 

You stared at her, your chest tightening, your thighs clenching together again. Your whole body screamed for her—wanted her—so badly it hurt.And Agatha...

She knew. 

She had to know. She watched you like she could read every secret, every pulse under your skin. Her smile softened a fraction, and for a second, you saw it. The loneliness. The weight she carried beneath all the smirks and sarcasm. You wanted to touch her. You ached to.

But you stayed where you were, hands clutched around your wine glass like a lifeline. Agatha shifted forward, setting her empty glass down. She was closer now. Close enough to touch. Close enough to ruin you.

She held your gaze, steady and unblinking, the firelight dancing in her dark hair. And when she spoke, it was barely a whisper "Careful, little historian."

You shivered, the words skating down your spine.

"You keep looking at me like that," Agatha murmured, her voice rich and low, "and I might get ideas." You opened your mouth—to say what, you didn’t know. But nothing came out.

Nothing but the rapid, shallow sound of your breathing. You were one wrong move away from falling headfirst into something you couldn't undo. And god help you— You wanted to. You swallowed hard, the heat in your body climbing higher, pooling low in your belly.

You couldn’t look away from her. You didn’t want to. You gripped your wine glass tighter, heart pounding against your ribs, and before you could chicken out, before you could think better of it, you heard yourself say— "Maybe I like some of your ideas." Your voice was soft, a little shaky, but you didn’t take it back.

Agatha’s eyes darkened immediately. That slow, almost lazy amusement on her face tightened into something sharper. Hungrier.

You watched her carefully set her glass down on the coffee table. Deliberate. Smooth. You could barely breathe. For a long second, neither of you moved. You just watched each other. The fire crackled in the hearth. The air between you throbbed, heavy, electric.

Then—

Slowly, carefully, Agatha shifted closer. The couch dipped under her weight. Your thighs brushed. You sucked in a shaky breath, feeling the heat of her even through your clothes. Agatha’s hand came up, fingers ghosting lightly along the side of your face—so soft it made you tremble. She paused there.

Waiting.

Giving you the chance to pull away. To change your mind.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

You tilted your face up to her, just slightly—enough. That was all she needed.

Her mouth met yours.

Soft at first. Testing. Tasting. Her lips were warm, plush, and you could taste the wine on her tongue—sweet and sharp and intoxicating. You whimpered into her mouth, and that was it.

The dam broke.

Agatha’s hand slid into your hair, tugging you closer, deepening the kiss. You gasped against her lips, and she swallowed it down, kissed you harder—hungrier—like she was starving and you were the only thing that could satisfy her.

You clutched at her sweater, desperate, needy, pulling her against you. You could feel her smile against your mouth, wicked and greedy, and god—you wanted more. You needed more.

The heat between your legs throbbed violently, your cunt clenching with every messy brush of her tongue against yours. You moaned into her mouth, your thighs pressing together helplessly.

Agatha groaned low in her throat, like the sound of you was the best thing she’d ever tasted. Her hands slid lower, gripping your hips, tugging you closer until you were half in her lap. You gasped again, dizzy, drunk on her, drunk on the wine, drunk on the way she kissed you like she owned you—like you’d belonged to her long before this moment.

Her mouth slanted over yours again and again, deeper each time, her teeth nipping lightly at your bottom lip, making you whine. You arched into her without thinking, hands sliding up her chest, fingers tangling in the soft fabric of her sweater.

You could feel her heartbeat hammering just as fast as yours. Could feel her body tense and trembling under your hands.

She wanted you. You could feel it.

And god—

You wanted her, too.

You kissed her harder, mouth opening wider, letting her in, letting her have you, your hands clawing at her, trying to pull her closer, closer, closer. Agatha’s hands roamed your body—your waist, your ribs, the curve of your ass—until you were shivering under her touch, helpless, completely undone. When you finally broke apart, gasping for air, her forehead rested against yours.

Her breath was ragged.

Her lips were swollen and red.

Her hand was still tangled in your hair. You stayed there for a long second, breathing each other in. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. The world had shrunk down to just this.

Just her.

Just you.

And the taste of wine still lingering between your teeth. You didn’t know who moved first. Maybe it was you. Maybe it was her.

But one second you were catching your breath— and the next you were crashing back together, mouths colliding, teeth knocking clumsily. A desperate, needy kind of kiss.

Messy.

Hot.

Your fingers found the hem of her sweater, curling into it, dragging her closer until your chest pressed against hers, until you could feel every frantic beat of her heart against your ribs. Agatha groaned into your mouth, her hands slipping under your thighs, pulling you fully into her lap without a hint of effort. You gasped at the sudden closeness, at the way your body molded against hers, perfectly, like you'd been made to fit.

Her hands ran up your sides, slow at first, almost taunting, and you whimpered into her mouth, your hips shifting helplessly against her. You couldn’t help it. You needed more. Your hands slid up—over her ribs, across her shoulders—until they tangled into her dark, messy hair, tugging gently, and she moaned low into your mouth, deep and rough and absolutely devastating.

You felt it all the way to your toes. You kissed her harder, letting your wine fogged bravery push you further. You tore your mouth from hers and kissed along her jaw, trailing sloppy, open mouthed kisses down the elegant line of her neck.

Agatha’s breath hitched— and then, to your utter, drunk delight—

A sound slipped out of her. Small. Ragged.

Choked.

Barely there.

But enough.

Enough to make your core clench painfully, enough to make heat flood between your thighs until you were practically trembling in her lap. You kissed her neck again— harder this time—sucking lightly just under her jaw. Agatha’s hands tightened on your hips, dragging you even closer, grinding you down against the firm, strong line of her thigh.

You moaned helplessly, gasping against her skin, desperate to get closer, to be closer, to disappear into her entirely. "Fuck," you breathed against her throat.

Agatha laughed low and breathless, one hand sliding up your back, fingers digging into the curve of your spine. "You're trouble," she murmured, voice wrecked and thick with wine and heat.

You kissed along her throat again, more shameless now, your body rocking against hers without even thinking. "You're worse," you muttered back, dragging your teeth lightly over her pulse point.

Agatha’s hand slid up into your hair, tugging your head back just slightly, just enough to make your lips part with a soft gasp. Her eyes locked onto yours—dark, glazed, starving. "You have no idea," she whispered.

And then she was kissing you again— harder, deeper, teeth scraping against your bottom lip, her tongue pushing into your mouth like she needed to own every inch of you.

You melted against her, your whole body on fire, your thighs shaking with need. You could feel the dampness soaking through your underwear, could feel your cunt throbbing for her, desperate and aching.

Her hands roamed everywhere now—your back, your hips, the underside of your thighs—pressing you down harder against her lap, grinding you against her until you were whimpering into her mouth, clutching at her like you’d fall apart if you let go.

You didn’t know where you ended and she began. Didn’t care. You only wanted more. More of her mouth. More of her hands. More of her. Always more. And when you pulled back just enough to breathe, panting against her lips, her forehead resting against yours, her hands still locked around your waist— Agatha smiled. A slow, wicked, possessive kind of smile. And you realized with a shiver—

You were already hers.

You just hadn’t said it out loud yet.

your nails dug into her shoulders, dragging her closer, desperate to keep your mouth on hers, to keep feeling her—tasting her. You were dizzy with it, drunk on her— on the wine— on the heat and hunger simmering between you.

But then— Something shifted. It was like falling through ice.

Your body jerked against hers— and then you were elsewhere. 

FLASH.

The forest.

But not just any forest.

This one knew you.

The trees stretched up like twisted hands clawing the sky, gnarled and black, draped in heavy curtains of moss.

The air was thick with smoke.

The mist clung to your skin like a second layer.

Antlers gleamed through the fog— towering, grotesque shapes worn by figures in dark robes.

Their faces hidden behind bone masks.

Their chants low, guttural, old.

"Venite ad nos..." 

The words rippled through the trees, vibrating the ground beneath your bare feet.

You stood barefoot in a circle scorched into the earth.

Symbols carved deep, pulsing with faint purple light.

You could feel the magic in your bones.

It throbbed under your skin, ancient and aching.

Latin spilled from your mouth without thinking— words you didn’t understand but spoke as if you'd known them forever.

"Dominus noctis, audi me." 

The robed figures bowed lower, their antlers dipping toward the earth.

And across the clearing—

Agatha.

Not dressed like now.

She wore no modern clothes.

Just a long black cloak thrown over simple linens, her hair loose and wild around her shoulders.

And her eyes— God, her eyes—

Violet.

Unholy.

Beautiful.

They locked onto yours, and something inside you remembered. 

You loved her.

You belonged to her.

In that life.

In this one.

Forever.

She stepped forward, the mist parting around her like it feared to touch her. She reached for you— and you met her halfway, falling into her arms without hesitation. The chanting rose louder, frenzied now, a fever pitch that rattled your teeth.

Above you, something vast and ancient stirred in the darkness—something watching.

Agatha pressed her forehead to yours. "You were always meant for more," she whispered, voice breaking like she was trying to save you— or maybe damn you.

The world burned purple around you.

FLASH.

Back to the present— but you weren’t fully back yet.

Your fingers were still clutching Agatha’s sweater, your lips still pressed to hers— but your body seized, convulsing once, twice.

Pain ripped through your skull. And then— you felt it—

Warm and wet against your upper lip. Agatha pulled back instantly, hands clamping your wrists, forcing you still. "Hey," she rasped, voice rough and terrified for once. "Hey, look at me—"

You blinked, disoriented. Your vision swam— the firelight spun around the room in dizzy gold streaks.

Agatha’s hand cupped your jaw, firm but trembling. Your breath hitched when you saw her thumb brush your upper lip— coming away slick with thick, black blood.

The same tar dark gunk you'd thrown up days ago. "No, no—" you whimpered, trying to pull back, heart hammering wildly in your ribs, but Agatha held you steady.

"Shh," she whispered, voice low and almost fierce. "You're alright. Just breathe. You're alright." You gasped against her palm, your chest heaving, your mind still reeling from the vision. The black blood dripped slow and viscous down your chin, staining your shirt, smearing her hand.

Agatha's eyes were huge, dark pools, scanning your face like she could will you back into your body. You tried to say something—tried to apologize, to explain— but all that came out was a broken, shuddering sob. Your nails were still dug into her shoulders—hard enough to bruise—but she didn’t pull away.

She didn’t even flinch. She just gathered you against her, pressing your forehead to hers, breathing with you.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

"You’re alright," she murmured again. "I've got you. I've got you." You clutched at her sweater, gasping, trembling, the black blood still weeping from your nose. And behind your eyes— Still there, burning — the image of the woods. The antlers. The chanting. Agatha’s violet eyes across the mist.

The raw, undeniable certainty— You hadn’t just studied witches.

You had been one. 

You had loved her once. And somehow, impossibly— some part of you still did. You shuddered violently, your face pressing harder into Agatha’s neck. She rocked you gently, one hand cradling the back of your head. Neither of you spoke.

Not yet.

The only sound was your ragged breathing— the faint crackle of the fire behind you— and the slow, steady thud of Agatha’s heart against your chest.

Holding you here. Holding you together. For now.

You were trembling in her arms. Still tasting blood. Still feeling the ghost of the woods pressing into your skin. Still dizzy with the memory of a life you couldn't possibly have lived. Agatha held you tighter, the rough knit of her sweater scratching your cheek.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Just breathing. Just surviving.

But the longer you sat there, the hotter it burned. Confusion. Fear.

The ache.

You jerked back finally, tearing yourself out of her hold. Agatha let you go instantly, her hands falling away like you’d burned her. You stumbled a step back, wiping at your mouth, at the black sludge still oozing sluggishly down your chin. "What the hell is happening to me?" you whispered.

Agatha didn’t answer. Her hands clenched at her sides. You shook your head, your heart hammering painfully against your ribs. Your throat clogged with grief. With fear you couldn’t name.

You pointed a shaky finger at her, voice cracking. "Is this you?" you demanded. "Are you—" Your breath hitched. "Are you doing this to me?"

Agatha flinched. Actually flinched. And something in your chest twisted at the sight. She looked— not angry. Not defensive.

Just... stricken.

"I’m not—" she started, voice rough, but she stopped herself. You laughed, a broken, bitter sound. The wine still buzzed under your skin, making everything feel too close, too bright, too raw .

"I don't know anything anymore," you said, voice shaking. "I don’t know what's real. I don’t know who the hell I am. I see things—feel things—every time I get near you. And now I'm puking up black tar and speaking Latin and—" Your breath stuttered. "—and I don't even know if I'm losing my mind or if you’ve been lying to me this whole time."

Agatha was silent. Watching you. Still. Too still.

It made you want to scream.

"Say something!" you snapped, voice breaking completely now. Agatha’s mouth twitched like she was about to— but then she just shook her head.

Like it wasn’t that simple. Like no answer she could give would fix what was breaking open between you. "You're not crazy," she said finally, her voice barely a whisper. "And I'm not hurting you."

You swallowed against the lump in your throat. Tears stung the corners of your eyes—hot and fast and unwanted. "But you're not telling me everything either," you said, voice trembling. "You know something. You know why this is happening to me."

Agatha's jaw worked—tightening, relaxing, tightening again. She looked away first. Looked at the fire instead of you. "I know enough," she said quietly. "To be scared for you."

The words gut punched you harder than anything else she could have said. You wiped your mouth again with the back of your hand, feeling the sting of embarrassment, anger, grief swirl under your skin.

Agatha said nothing. And that silence— that infuriating, suffocating silence— was somehow worse than any lie she could have told.

Your chest heaved. Your side ached with every breath. The black veins pulsed painfully under your skin, screaming that something inside you was wrong, broken, unraveling.

And she was just— standing there. Silent. Stone faced.

Safe.

While you felt like you were falling apart piece by piece. "Of course you won’t say anything," you choked out, taking a staggering step backward. "Because that’s what you do, isn’t it?"

Agatha’s eyes flickered, but she didn’t move. "You lie," you hissed, your voice rising. "You dodge. You deflect. You hide in this stupid house like the world’s already ended!"

"Stop," Agatha said quietly. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

"You act like you’re so above it all—so clever, so fucking untouchable—but you’re just scared," you spat. "Too scared to tell the truth. Too scared to even face it!"

The words were pouring out now, too fast, too raw to stop. "And you know me," you shouted, your voice cracking apart at the edges. "I know you do. Because I’m having these—" You clawed a hand through your hair, trembling so hard you could barely breathe. "These visions ! And you’re in every single one of them!"

Your voice broke on the last word. "You’re always there," you whispered hoarsely. "Staring back at me. Like you remember." Agatha didn’t deny it. She didn’t even flinch. She just stood there, her face carved in stone, her hands curled into fists at her sides.

The fire cracked sharply in the hearth, the only sound between you. "I can’t do this," you muttered, backing up another step toward the hallway. "I can’t stay here."

"You’re not leaving," Agatha said immediately—too fast, too sharp. You barked out a humorless laugh, swallowing down the bitter taste of bile and wine and rage.

"You don’t get to tell me what to do," you snapped, shoving past the couch. Agatha moved to block you without hesitation, her body between you and the door like a wall.

"You don’t understand," she said, voice low, nearly shaking with something you couldn't name. "It’s not safe for you out there."

"I don't care!" you shouted, the words ripping out of you like claws. "I don't care if it's not safe! I can't breathe in here! I can't think—"

"You think the beast is gone?" she cut you off sharply, stepping closer.

You stumbled a step back but kept your chin high, your heart hammering against your ribs so hard it hurt.

"You think it isn't waiting for you?" Agatha said, her voice cold and cutting now. "You summoned it. It's tied to you. You walk out that door, it’ll rip you apart before you even make it to the street."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Because you didn’t have an answer for that. Your body shook with exhaustion, your side throbbed in time with your heartbeat, but the anger was still burning too bright to stop. "You think I don’t know fear?" you whispered, your voice ragged. "You think you get to be the only one who's scared?"

Agatha said nothing. The silence stretched again, taut as wire. "I trusted you," you said, voice breaking. "I don't even know why. I don’t even know you."

Agatha’s mouth opened. Closed. Like the words were too big, too dangerous, to say aloud. And maybe they were. But you didn’t wait around to hear them. You shoved past her again, your shoulder slamming into hers harder than you meant, sending a sharp ache jolting through your wounded side.

You didn’t care.

You stormed down the hall, your bare feet slapping against the hardwood, the whole house seeming to shrink and twist around you with every step. Behind you— "Don’t," Agatha said, voice low, dangerous.

You ignored her. Reached for the front door. Fumbled with the lock. Your fingers were shaking so hard you could barely turn it.

The door creaked open— And then you were yanked back, spun around so fast the world blurred. Your back hit the wall with a dull thud, the breath punched out of your lungs. Agatha pinned you there, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your wrist so tightly it made your whole arm throb.

You gasped, heart crashing against your ribs, blinking up at her— And froze. Because her face was inches from yours. Her eyes boring into you. And for a second— just a second— you saw it. A flicker. A flash of something not quite blue. Not quite human.

Violet.

Burning.

You sucked in a sharp breath, your pulse hammering wildly. But when you blinked again, it was gone. Trick of the light. Wine. Fear. You didn’t know. You couldn’t know. "You can’t leave," Agatha hissed, her voice raw, like it was being torn from somewhere deep inside her. "I won’t let you."

You struggled, half hearrted, more out of instinct than any real intent to fight her off. "Let go," you rasped, chest heaving.

"No," she snarled. The hand by your head slammed flat against the wall, the sound echoing through the foyer like a gunshot.

You flinched. "You don’t understand," Agatha said, low and feral. "You walk out that door, and it’ll tear you apart. I can’t —" Her voice broke. She leaned in closer. So close you could feel the heat rolling off her skin. So close you could taste the wine on her breath.

"I can't lose you again," she whispered. You stared at her, your heart thundering in your ears. Again.

Again?

The word rattled around in your skull like a bullet, leaving everything else in its wake shattered and senseless. You swallowed hard, the fight bleeding out of your limbs, leaving you shaking with something else now. Something hotter.

Something hungrier .

Agatha’s hand loosened on your wrist—but didn’t let go. Her eyes searched your face— wild, desperate, furious. Waiting. Daring.

Your breathing was a mess. So was hers. Your bodies, still pressed too close, radiated heat. The kind that crackled. The kind that burned.

For one terrifying, electric moment— you thought she was going to kiss you again. Right there. Right against the goddamn door.

You wanted her to.

You hated yourself for it.

You loved yourself for it.

Your hand twitched against her chest, caught between shoving her away and pulling her closer.

She saw it. You knew she did. Because her lips parted—just slightly—like she was about to say something. Something that would wreck you. But she didn’t. She just stood there, pinning you to the wall, breathing you in like you were the only thing keeping her alive. And you— You didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare blink. Didn’t dare do anything except feel your whole body thrum with the knowledge that whatever existed between you was bigger than both of you.

Older. Hungrier. And it wasn’t finished yet. Not even close. You hated her. You hated her for lying. You hated her for knowing things you didn’t. You hated her for looking at you like that— for standing so close—

for daring to care .

Your body was trembling, your side ached, your lip was still wet with the aftermath of that cursed black blood— And you still wanted her. Maybe that was what broke you.

Maybe it was the fear. The confusion. The anger twisting hot and wild through your veins. Or maybe it was just her. Standing there, breathing just as raggedly as you. Not moving.

Waiting.

You surged up before you could think about it—before you could stop yourself—and slammed your mouth onto hers. Agatha jerked back half a step, stunned. Her hand slid from your wrist to your hip, gripping hard. You kissed her like you were drowning. Like you hated her for every secret she kept. Like you wanted to devour her just to finally get to the truth. Agatha made a soft, startled sound against your mouth—half gasp, half growl.

You felt her hesitate. Felt the split second war inside her. Then she snapped. Her hand fisted into your shirt, yanking you closer, and she kissed you back like she could burn the fight out of you. You groaned against her lips—frustrated, furious, needing more—and she swallowed it down like it was something precious.

Your fingers tangled into her hair, tugging hard enough to make her gasp against your teeth. And still— even as her hands slid hungrily down your back, even as her mouth moved over yours like a woman starved— you were muttering against her skin.

"I hate—" You gasped as her teeth grazed your lower lip. "I hate that you never explain anything—"

Another kiss, harder now, bruising.

"I hate that you always just look at me like—like you know —" Her mouth was on your jaw, your throat, her breath hot and desperate. "And you never—" You gasped when her fingers dug into your hips. "Never fucking tell me—"

She growled low in her throat, dragging you flush against her body, and the feel of her—solid, wild, real —made your head spin. Your nails scraped across her shoulders, clutching, grounding yourself against her.

Agatha’s left, veiny hand slid up under your shirt, not quite touching skin yet, but close—so close you could feel the heat of her palm burning through the thin fabric. You shuddered under her touch.

You hated her.

You needed her.

You hated needing her.

You moaned softly, biting down hard on your lip to keep from saying more, but she caught your chin, tilting your face up to hers, forcing you to look at her. Her pupils were blown wide, her cheeks flushed, strands of dark hair falling loose around her face.

"You think you’re the only one who hates it?" she rasped, voice wrecked and low. You stared at her, chest heaving. Her hand trembled slightly against your jaw.

"You think this is easy for me?" she whispered, her thumb brushing your cheekbone, almost tenderly. You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to breathe around it. So you kissed her again.

Harder.

Messier.

Drunker on her than you were on the wine. She met you halfway, groaning low in her throat as she pushed you back against the wall, her body caging yours in completely. Detaching Herself from your lips, her head moving down as her mouth was on your throat now, teeth scraping lightly at the sensitive skin there, and you gasped, your hands flying up to clutch at her shoulders again.

You could still taste the wine on her tongue when her mouth claimed yours again. Bitter and sweet and dizzying. You didn’t care. You wanted more. You raked your fingers through her hair, tugging, desperate. Agatha’s hands slid down to your thighs, gripping tight, dragging you up so you could wrap your legs around her waist—and you did, clinging to her like she was the only solid thing in a world made of shifting, lying shadows.

You could feel the vibration of her moan against your chest when you sucked lightly at the corner of her mouth. And she— She kissed you like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.

Like you were a promise she was too broken to keep but couldn’t bear to let go of. And even through the haze of it— even through the anger and the hurt and the raw aching want— you knew:

This wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. Not until she told you everything. Not until the lies were burned down to ash between you.

But for now— You clung to her. You clawed at her sweater, desperate for more skin, more heat, more proof she was real. Agatha’s mouth never left yours—not for a second—as she fumbled the hem of her sweater, ripping it over her head in one swift, impatient motion.

You pulled from the kiss, your hands flying up to touch her—bare skin, warm and flushed, the faintest marks of age and strength under your fingertips. Your nails scraped across her ribs and she growled , low and dangerous, pinning you harder against the door, grinding into you like she wanted to leave bruises, reminders, warnings.

You kissed her back just as feral, just as desperate. "I hope you choke on all your fucking lies," you gasped against her mouth, the words ripping free before you could think better of it.

Agatha froze. For one heartbeat—one crackling, unbearable heartbeat—her whole body went rigid. And then— You felt her smile against your lips, slow and razor sharp.

"You," she rasped, voice rough with the threat of breaking, "have a smart fucking mouth." You were panting, glaring up at her, your thighs tightening around her waist like you were daring her to do something about it.

"And enough of that—" She ducked lower, her mouth grazing the edge of your jaw, the thudding pulse in your throat, the tender slope of your collarbone, hot breath making you tremble. " For now. " You shuddered when she said it, her voice wrecked with restraint she was seconds from losing.

Her mouth dragged lower, teeth grazing your skin, leaving ghost bites down your neck. Your head hit the door with a soft thud, fingers twisted tight in her hair. You felt her exhale against your collarbone. Felt her lips barely brush the hollow of your throat. And then—hot, guttural, like it cost her something to say "I know you."

Your breath hitched. Her mouth moved lower, dragging down your chest, across your sternum. "Just not this body."

It punched the air from your lungs. A broken noise slipped out of you—somewhere between a sob and a moan—as you clutched her tighter, feeling like you might drown in her, in the wine and the heat and the impossible weight of her words.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Because deep down—you knew it was true.

You knew it in your marrow. You knew it from the way your body answered hers like a prayer half remembered. You knew it from the way she kissed you like she was trying to put centuries of grief back inside your mouth. You gasped her name, raw and aching, and Agatha’s hands slid up under your shirt, mapping your ribs, memorizing you like she hadn't done it a hundred times before in other lives, other centuries.

You were dizzy.

Drunk.

Devastated.

And then—

You saw it again Just for a second. Her eyes flashed— violet —deep and blinding like the visions that haunted your sleep. You gasped, clutching at her bare shoulders. Agatha’s hand slid up—fast—catching your face in a rough, almost tender grip.

You barely had time to see her fingers coming—pressing two of them against your temple— Before the world tilted sideways. A shudder racked your body, your limbs going boneless, slumping against the doorframe. The last thing you saw before the darkness dragged you under was Agatha’s face— her flushed cheeks, wild hair, bitten lips— and something like regret burning behind her storm cloud eyes.

"Shh," she whispered, almost broken. "I'll fix it."  Then— Nothing.

Black.

Weightless.

Silent.

Like sinking to the bottom of a lake you’d never surface from.

And Agatha’s voice—the memory of it—following you down into the dark.

.

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Next Chapter

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Authors note- How do you guys like the longer chapters compared to the usual 4-6k?

[aceecee]

Insatiable - Extra #8

The original idea I had for Insatiable, actually I didn't have a title for it back then. It was meant to be a Sylus fic, I have no idea how it turned out to what it's become.

I might write this in the future.

Masterlist

The man is silent as he enters your apartment. 

The air is heavy with regret…guilt.

You know why he’s here. You can feel your heart breaking at the realisation but you hide it all. Nothing on you gives away any feeling. It’s not fair to the man, he’d been honest to you from the start that nothing real would ever form between you two. He told you all about the woman he truly loved, the one he was waiting for. You don’t feel any malice for her, from the way he had described her, she was an astonishing person, someone who deserved a man like him by her side.

“I’m guessing you found her,” your smile is soft because even though it hurts, his happiness wins over your desires. 

“Yes.”

“Okay,” you know what’s coming. The two of you had discussed this. “I guess that's it,” you follow up. 

“This is goodbye then, Sylus.”

“Goodbye.”

Sylus doesn’t know what to feel as he walks away from you.

He shouldn’t be this conflicted. It was never meant to be difficult. 

He was never meant to get attached.

Whatever the two of you had was always transactional. He had sought you out - a hacker with excellent capabilities - you had a reputation around the N109 zone. At first the both of you kept a clear distance, your help made his operations a lot easier. As time progressed so did whatever it was between the both of you. He made sure to keep his intentions clear, it wouldn’t be fair otherwise.

It was just sex, he told himself as he held you in his arms.

It was just sex, he told himself as he kissed you.

It was just sex, he told himself as he caressed you.

He repeats those same words now as he walks away.

Six months pass and not a day goes by when he doesn’t think of you.

Things with Miss Hunter never take off. Her heart now belongs with someone else and Sylus doesn’t even care. He’s the only one who remembers their past together, there’s no need to burden her with the memories. Instead, the two become fast friends. 

One night, he finds himself telling her about you. She offers no kind words as she berates him for leaving you. 

“You idiot! You’re clearly in love with her. What are you still doing here?”

He’s back at your apartment. He found himself here a lot these last months, simply standing outside but never knocking. For he had left you, what right does he have to come back in your life?

He knocks this time.

No response.

“[Name]?”

Nothing. 

Sylus has been in the game for a long time, one thing he’s learnt is to never avoid his instincts. They had helped him with never making deals with the wrong people, and helped him with finding the right person to trust.

And right now, those instincts were screaming that something was wrong.

He easily bypasses the electric lock on your door. What greets him inside is nothing. All the walls are devoid of any decorations, the photos you had up of your deceased family and current friends are gone. There’s no furniture anywhere. The entire place has been swept clean, not a speck of dirt left behind.

If someone figured out how to leave the N109 zone, it would be you.

Five years and six more months have gone by. Not a single trace of you has been found, you haven’t made it easy with your capabilities. None of your friends know where you are. You’ve left everyone behind.

He still hasn’t given up, no matter how long it takes, he will find you. Mephisto misses you. The twins miss you. 

Sylus misses you.

The little girl stares back at him.

“Are you Stylus? Mummy said to give this to you,” she pronounces his name wrong. With red eyes and white hair, it doesn’t take a genius to know who this kid is. She hands him a letter. 

“It’s Sylus,” he explains. The kid blinks at him, clearly not expecting such a deep voice. As he rips the letter open, the kid repeats his name over and over again.

Sylus,

If it is you reading this letter then I suppose you’ve met Ruby.

He looks back into those red eyes that mirror his. His daughter’s name is Ruby…how fitting.

“What is your favourite gem?” he asked as the both of you perused the collection.

He watches as you pick you out a gem and hold it next to his eye. “Perfect match,” you grin at him. 

“Right now it’s rubies.”

He brings the kid inside, get’s her situated while he reads the rest.

I would have told you but I only figured out I was pregnant when I had already left. I tried to get in touch but the number you gave me no longer worked and I was not going into that area while pregnant or with a child in my arms.

I’ll admit a part of me didn’t want to, I was afraid you wouldn’t accept our child. That I would ruin your future with your hunter.

I know deep down that you’re not that kind of man but even I get insecure sometimes.

I don’t know how but some shady organisation discovered she’s your child. I have a theory that one of them must have met you and if you’ve seen Ruby, then it’s obvious. I did some digging on this organisation and it’s not good. At first I thought they were some small fry but I’ve discovered transactions that go deep, they have a lot of rich people in their pockets which means they’re very powerful. What they have against you, I have no idea. They’re good at covering their tracks.

It’s why I sent Ruby to you, you’ll be able to protect her. 

I made them think that I was running away with her while I sent her alone to you. I led them away so she could get to you.

Don’t come looking for me. If I’m successful in tricking them then I’ll come to you and we can finally have the conversation we should have had years ago. If I don’t come back, then I’m dead. I offer no leverage to these people so they’ll kill me.

I’ve attached a hard drive containing all the information I have on them, with your resources it should be easy to end them.

Take care of Ruby for me, okay? She’s all I have. Tell her I love her so much.

P.S. she’s allergic to nuts, her bag has epipens but make sure to keep many around the house! She also needs a story every night or she’s not going to sleep. She has a lot of energy (I blame you for that) so make sure to burn it out of her every day. She has a sweet tooth but don’t give in! She’ll flash you puppy eyes but you have to stay strong, she’s a menace and she knows it.

You don’t sign it with your name but you don’t have to. It’s clear the letter is from you.

The familiar sensation of regret wraps its arms around him. You had been pregnant when he left you. All this time, you had dealt with it all on your own. You might die on your own too.

He can’t have that happen.

A small hand tugs at his pants. 

“Are you my dad? You look like me,” Ruby asks.

He leans down and pokes her cheek. “You look like me, I’m older,” he says softly. 

It’s the confirmation the girl needs, her walls crumble around her father. Tears gather in her eyes. “Will mummy be okay? I want her back.”

Without thinking, he cradles the girl into his arms. His shirt becomes wet with her tears. 

He’s already failed you twice. There won’t be a third time.

“I’ll bring her back.”

Tag list: Tag List: @serenity-loves-red @crimsonmarabou @reni502 @r0ckb1n @queenkymmie @plzdonutpercieveme @perqbeth @mephisto-with-a-knife @tumblingdevils @angelwhizpers

[cherbii]

MR LOVERMAN

just some prompts on how the jjk men love you

ft. Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Choso, Toji, Sukuna, Ino

SATORU GOJO loves loudly.

He bursts through the door like he’s entering a party, even if it’s just your apartment. “I’m home!” He yells like you’ve been waiting all day, even when you texted him ten minutes ago. The second he sees you, he’s picking you up off the ground and spinning you around like it’s a movie. He laughs when you hit his arm to put you down, but he always holds on a little longer.

If you're out with friends, he doesn't sit far from you. He’s pressed against your side, throwing an arm around your shoulder, kissing the top of your head in the middle of someone else’s story. He talks about you like you're the best thing that's ever happened to him. He says it out loud, too. Sometimes he’ll say something dumb just to hear you laugh. He swears it’s his favourite sound.

He texts you memes all day. Even if you don’t respond, he keeps sending them. When you do reply, he types in all caps and adds way too many emojis. If you ever say you're upset, he's at your door with snacks, jokes, and a full plan to make you forget whatever it was.

Gojo’s love is constant. It’s loud, obvious, sometimes embarrassing, but always warm. You never have to wonder how he feels. He’ll remind you five times before breakfast.

SUGURU GETO loves quietly.

He notices when you're tired and doesn’t say anything. He just pulls a blanket over your shoulders and turns down the lights. When he makes tea for himself, he always makes a cup for you too without asking. If you're busy, he brings it to your desk. He doesn’t interrupt. He just sets it down and gives you a soft smile.

He’s not the type to say “I love you” all the time. But when he does, it’s always in quiet moments. Like when you're brushing your teeth and he’s behind you, towel over his shoulder, looking at you through the mirror. Or when he thinks you're asleep and whispers it like it’s just for him.

He doesn't post about you online. He doesn’t tell the world. But he takes care of you like you’re the most important part of his day. He’ll stand behind you when you’re upset and just stay there. No advice, no pressure, just steady presence.

You won’t get big speeches from him. But you'll always feel safe. With Geto, love isn’t a show. It’s just there. Strong and quiet.

KENTO NANAMI loves through acts of service.

If your sink is leaking, he’s under it with a wrench before you even ask. If your day’s been long, dinner’s already on the table. He checks your calendar and reminds you of important dates before you forget. You don’t have to ask for help. He notices and handles it before it turns into a problem.

He walks on the side of the street closer to traffic. Always. No matter what. He’s the one holding the umbrella and adjusting it so you stay dry. When you're sick, he has medicine, soup, and a clean blanket ready in ten minutes flat. He won't say much, but he’ll sit beside you and read until you fall asleep.

He brings you coffee when you’re working late and won’t leave until you take a break. Sometimes, he just stands behind you and rests a hand on your shoulder. Not to rush you. just to remind you he’s there. He makes your life easier in small ways every day.

With Nanami, love is practical. It’s stable. It’s being the first person you call because you know he’ll handle it. His love is always in motion, always in the details.

TOJI FUSHIGURO loves physically.

He’ll never say the right words, not at first. But his hand will be on your lower back when you walk into a room. He’ll pull you onto his lap like it’s the most natural thing. You’ll be on the couch watching something dumb, and his arm’s already around you, thumb brushing against your hip without him thinking twice.

In public, he's not over-the-top, but he's not distant either. He keeps you close. A hand on your waist, a quick squeeze of your fingers when he senses you’re uncomfortable. You might think he’s not paying attention, but he is. He always is.

When he comes home, he finds you first. Drops his keys, shrugs off his jacket, and pulls you in. He leans his forehead against yours, eyes closed, breathing steady. That’s his version of saying he missed you.

He might not say "I love you" often, but you’ll know when his hand finds yours under the table. When he presses a kiss to your temple after a long day. When he grabs you and says, “C’mere,” with that quiet voice that only comes out when it’s just the two of you. His love speaks through touch.

RYOMEN SUKUNA loves roughly.

He doesn’t do romance the usual way. His teasing is blunt and sometimes borderline mean, but it always ends with him pulling you closer. He rolls his eyes when you call him out, but he listens. He won’t say “sorry,” but the next day he’s got your favourite snack on the table without a word. That’s how he says it.

If anyone talks down to you or looks at you wrong, he’s already stepping in. Doesn’t matter if it’s some guy at a bar or a curse threatening your life, he moves fast, brutal, and without hesitation. He’ll say you’re weak just to mess with you, but if someone else does? He loses it.

He doesn’t always ask how you are, but he knows. He notices when your voice sounds off or when you don’t finish your meal. He won’t press you to talk, just drags you into his lap and holds you there like he’s anchoring you. He acts annoyed about it, but you can feel his grip tighten every time you try to move.

When it’s just the two of you, he’s quieter. He traces his thumb over your skin like he’s trying to memorise it. He calls you “mine” more than he says your name. It sounds possessive, but it’s the closest he gets to “I love you.” With Sukuna, love comes sharp. But it never breaks you. It protects you.

CHOSO KAMO loves softly.

He’s not used to it, but he tries. He listens carefully when you talk, even when you're rambling. He tilts his head when you're explaining something and nods slowly, like he’s taking notes in his mind. When he doesn’t know what to say, he holds your hand instead.

He likes quiet mornings with you. The kind where no one speaks for the first hour. Just you, him, and a cup of tea. He watches you like you’re a dream he doesn’t want to wake up from. When you laugh, his whole face changes. He doesn’t always laugh back, he just stares in awe.

He asks how your day was every night. He means it. He listens without looking at his phone, without trying to fix things. He just wants to know. When you’re upset, he holds you gently, like he’s scared to make it worse. You always feel safe with him.

Choso’s love isn’t loud or showy. But it’s soft, steady, and honest. It’s warm hands and quiet rooms and someone who truly sees you.

INO TAKUMA loves verbally.

He tells you you’re beautiful even when you’ve just woken up with messy hair and puffy eyes. He says “I love you” in the middle of conversations, like it randomly hits him again and he can’t keep it in. When you’re stressed, he tells you he’s proud of you. When you’re quiet, he asks what’s wrong, and actually waits for the answer.

He’s big on compliments. Not just about how you look, but how you think, how you try, how you care. He’ll say stuff like, “You always notice the small things,” or “You handled that way better than I would’ve.” He means it. And he says it without waiting for a reason.

On the phone, he ends every call with “love you.” Even if you’re mad. Even if he’s late. He never lets a day end without saying it, just in case. He talks to you like your voice is his favourite sound, like everything you say matters, even if it’s just what you ate for lunch.

Ino doesn’t want you to guess how he feels. He’ll remind you as many times as it takes. His love is in every sentence, every reassurance, every “you’ve got this” and “I’m lucky to have you.” With him, you always know where you stand.

[mechncheese]

Wait you’re in an animation program at a school? Do you have any tips for someone about to go into a 2D animation course?

I wish I could offer more good animation-related advice but my experience has been a lot of allnighters, grinding, and endless balancing on top of being the number one procrastinator. Here are some general tips I've learned </3 Looking at this now, this is just advice rather than tips oops

Manage your time-- It sounds like very surface level advice but please.. Do not end up like me with 33 scenes to finish in 2 days. I wish I had time management advice but I have the worst management on the planet. I keep everything on a written to-do list taped on the wall and sometimes I forget about it.

You will learn that not everything you make will be up to your own standards or satisfaction. Balancing several classes on top of animation is not easy and sometimes you will end up with work you are not proud of and that's okay. We keep pushing forward and there's always time afterwards to revise. Part of the learning process is accepting that sometimes we flop and sacrifice quality to finish something. Time constraints are something we just have to deal with and it doesn't make us bad animators.

Take video reference for character animation-- It helps a lot. Don't know how a character would bow, jump, or run ? Take a video of yourself doing the action and reference it as you go !

You may be tempted to go above and beyond with every animation assignment given, and that's a good drive to have ! Do not push yourself to burnout though, nothing is worth burnout or carpal tunnel.

Speaking of carpal tunnel, stretch your hands. During long work sessions, stretch at least every hour. Stretch your wrists, back, and legs. Take a walk once in a while, go outside, look at the sky. Looking at a screen for a long period of time will give you crazy headaches. Do not destroy your body for school. PLEASE. Also drink water, too many sweet treats will make you feel sluggish, tired, and icky.

20 minute naps/breaks.. When I'm stuck on a scene and can't get it looking right I straight up nap for like 20 minutes and come back to it. It refreshes my head and I find that I work better after a quick break. Staring at your animation for too long will make you second guess yourself and get frustrated when things are not working out. Take a break and come back, it's gonna be okay, you just need to not look at it for a bit. Adjustments and edits are easier to see and make after a break.

Be open to critique. ask for help if you're stuck-- also sounds like a given but when I first started I was a little stubborn and wanted my ideas and my way of doing things to work really bad. You will find yourself a lot happier with your work when you start taking suggestions and changing your perspective !

Remember you're here to learn ! No one expects you to be a professional animator right off the bat. And don't compare yourself to your peers, we all go at our own pace and we are all students. Make friends, live life, have fun ! I find that the worst years were the ones where I isolated myself working to death trying to get my work to look just right. I'm about to graduate and I wish I learned sooner how green the grass is on the other side of constant grinding. Animation student life is so hard and difficult but it doesn't have to be miserable ! GOOD LUCK OUT THERE SOLDIER !

[aventurineswife]

Oooh I’ve got an idea:

Boothill with Remembrance Pathstrider Reader working undercover as an IPC agent.

Reader has a solid résumé that gets them a high enough position in some department, and it helps that they have a background in engineering and computers, letting them slip into areas normally closed off to others which lets them steal information and data (and gather memories from the surrounding environment) while they’re doing their job; and after waiting for someone to complain about their tech still not working, Reader can go back in to clean up, leaving the tech to work properly without anymore problems so that no one suspects anything.

And Reader can easily act annoyed whenever someone asks for help, because they also do have legitimate experience in dealing with the computer illiterate. 😅

Reader: “Ugh, it’s having problems again? What did you do this time?” 😒

IPC goon: “Skott was the last one to use it.”

Skott: “IT WASN’T ME, I DIDN’T BREAK IT!” 😭

Except someone occasionally starts to suspect and close in on Reader, especially when they notice that almost every technological incident has Reader involved; and this time the suspicion is heavy enough that Reader needs some kind of distraction, or at least some way to lift it the suspicion.

So they send an encrypted message to their regular, Boothill, saying “Hostage situation,” meaning, “I need a temporary extraction because they’re onto me and I can’t shake them off.”

No Rest for the Wicked

Summary: When you, an undercover IPC agent with a solid background in engineering and computer systems, find yourself under suspicion for a series of tech malfunctions, you send a coded message to Boothill, the cyborg cowboy and your regular ally, asking for a distraction. As suspicion mounts and the heat intensifies, Boothill creates chaos in the IPC building, allowing you to make your escape. With the agent closing in on you, you rely on Boothill’s timely intervention to ensure your extraction—and your survival.

Tags: Boothill x Reader, Undercover Agent, Suspense, Action, Tech Manipulation, Espionage, Distracting Chaos, Slow Burn, Mutual Trust.

Warnings: Gun violence, Explosions, Suspenseful action, References to combat and danger, Mild language, Peril.

The air in the IPC’s towering headquarters was sterile and cold, the hum of computers filling the halls. You walked confidently through the corridors, your heels clicking against the marble floors, a calculated annoyance etched into your expression as you passed one of the many workers bustling about. It wasn’t the first time someone had called you in to deal with a malfunctioning piece of tech, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

You had an impeccable résumé, one that made it easy to slip into the ranks of the IPC unnoticed, a high-ranking agent within a department no one could quite place you in. Engineering and computer systems, the perfect cover for your true work. Your ability to slip into areas normally closed off to others, gathering information and gathering memories from the environment around you, made your job easier. But today, something felt different. The air around you was heavier—like someone was watching just a little too closely.

"Ugh, it’s having problems again?" you muttered as you walked into the small office where a flustered employee stood beside a malfunctioning console. "What did you do this time?"

The worker, nervous and flustered, hesitated before pointing to a colleague in the corner of the room. "Skott was the last one to use it."

Skott’s face immediately contorted into horror. "IT WASN’T ME, I DIDN’T BREAK IT!" he wailed.

You simply rolled your eyes, more focused on the larger picture at hand than their petty drama. You always had a reputation for acting annoyed when these "accidents" happened, and honestly, it suited you. It kept people from asking too many questions, gave you the perfect excuse to swoop in and fix things. This time, it was a simple fix—too easy. A few adjustments here, a gentle tap there, and the console would be working perfectly. But as you bent over the console, your mind was elsewhere.

There were whispers lately, whispers that made your stomach churn. Someone was starting to suspect. Maybe it was just paranoia, but you couldn’t help but feel the eyes on you. Each time you fixed another "problem," you felt someone getting closer, lingering a bit too long. It wasn’t a coincidence that every tech failure seemed to involve you.

You had to cover your tracks. It was time for a distraction, something to keep the heat off you for a while. You couldn't afford to slip up now—not when Boothill was still out there. He was your lifeline, and he knew exactly how to handle situations like this.

With a subtle gesture, you activated your communicator and sent a quick encrypted message: "Hostage situation."

It was your code for "I need extraction. They’re onto me."

A few moments passed before you received a response. Just one word: "Coming."

You felt a small wave of relief, but you couldn’t let your guard down. The pressure was mounting, the suspicion growing stronger. You needed to get out, and you needed Boothill to cause the perfect distraction. As you finished the minor repairs to the console and reprogrammed it to work flawlessly, you heard the distinct sound of boots in the hallway. The unmistakable heavy thud of someone approaching—someone who didn’t belong.

The door swung open, and a cold-eyed agent stepped in, his gaze locking onto you. "Agent Pathstrider," he said with forced politeness, "We need to have a word."

Your heart skipped a beat. The suspicion was no longer subtle. You had no time to play coy.

"Of course," you replied, giving them the most disinterested expression you could muster. "What is it now? Is someone else having problems with their tech? Maybe they should stop breaking things."

The agent took a step closer, his eyes narrowing as he studied you. He wasn't just trying to figure out a malfunction—he was trying to figure out you. And that was a problem.

Before the agent could say anything else, there was a loud bang, followed by the unmistakable sound of gunfire. A massive explosion shook the building, sending a tremor through the floor. You didn't even flinch. This was it. Boothill had arrived.

The agent’s eyes flickered toward the door, and without missing a beat, you lunged forward, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him into the nearest wall. His breath came out in a rush, but you weren't about to let him make a sound. You quickly applied enough pressure to keep him still but not enough to kill him—not yet.

"Stay quiet," you hissed in his ear, your hand tightly gripping the small, concealed blade hidden at your side. "We don't want anyone to notice you're missing."

With the agent temporarily subdued, you moved to the window, your heart pounding with adrenaline. The building was in chaos—Boothill’s signature, a calculated mess of violence. His handiwork was exactly what you needed. As you glanced out, you saw him—his tall, imposing figure in his cowboy hat, flames in the distance framing his outline. Boothill had made sure the distraction would cover your escape.

You didn’t waste any time. With the agent out cold, you slipped out of the room and into the ventilation system, quickly making your way to a secure exit. You had a rendezvous with Boothill, and you weren’t going to let anyone ruin it.

After all, when your cover was blown, only one thing could save you—your partner in the shadows, the gunslinger whose fire never burned out.

[holylulusworld]

Dumbass stalker (3) – I see you

Summary: You’re the worst stalker ever.

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x Plussized!Reader

Warnings: stalking, obsession, possessive/delusional reader

A/N: Please consider this reader is obsessed with SB. Her behavior is concerning.

Dumbass stalker masterlist

Dumbass stalker (2) – Crazy for you

The fan event last week left you high and dry. You were happy, Soldier Boy looked your way, but since then, it seems like he disappeared. No social media activity, no new pictures. Nothing.

What’s a girl got to do if her man doesn’t show? She ends up adding more pictures to her shrine or making another collage of the newest pictures she found on her favorite website.

There are more than enough fans out there willing to share images with you.

“Where are you, Soldier Boy?” You sigh after finishing the last collage. You’re done with work for the week, already ahead two days. It’s easier to follow your man around town if you’re working from home. “I’m bored.”

You get up from your swivel chair to pace around your living room. It’s too early to go to sleep, but you don’t want to go out. Soldier Boy is not in town. At least according to Vought. He’s on yet another important mission.

You love that about your man. He always puts the people first. Even though he deserves to have a life, too. “If only you’d let me take care of you. I’d be so good to you, baby,” you sigh and close your eyes for a moment.

There’s not much to do today. You've completed your work and all your art projects. What else can you do than sulk in a corner of your apartment and wait for Soldier Boy to come back to town?

Cursing yourself for leaving your home, you sit in a café with one of the few co-workers you like. She’s like you, mostly working from home. You nod at something she said, pretending you listened to her rant about her ex-boyfriend and some other girl.

That’s the next thing you like about your relationship with Soldier Boy. He’d never break your heart to fuck around with some girl.

“Can you believe he pretended that they didn’t fuck on our couch?” She sighs and takes a large sip of her Long Island iced tea.

You scrunch up your nose at the choice of her drink. Alcohol was never your jam, but you understand that everyone copes with their problems differently.

She makes a stupid joke, and you giggle, out of sympathy, not because it was funny. Most jokes aren’t to you.

The conversation drags on. You try everything to keep up with the conversation and not let your mind wander to Soldier Boy and another art project you plan on creating soon.

You close your eyes again and recall that you must act normal around other people. So, you put on a smile and join the conversation, even talking about a new plant you bought and the book you want to read. It lies abandoned on your nightstand, but she doesn’t need to know that.

Leaning back in the chair, you look around the area. A man standing a bit farther away catches your attention. He’s wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, but you swear, for a second, he looked like Soldier Boy.

You blink, and he’s gone. “Hmm…odd.” You murmur, ignoring the strange look she gives you. “Never mind. Please tell me more about the cat you want to adopt.”

She tells you about the perfect cat she wants to buy, not adopt. You’d love to tell her that there are so many cats waiting for a forever home at a shelter, but she wouldn’t listen.

“I found my cat behind a Taco Bell,” you say. “Maybe they found me; I’m not sure. The furry bastard sat in front of me, put their paws on my shoes, and meowed until I picked them up. I had to take them home.”

Someone behind you chuckles, but when you turn around, no one is there. Huh? What’s going on here? It feels almost as if someone is watching you.

You chuckle at the thought. No one ever looked at you twice. No one in your whole life. Why would this change overnight?

You’re almost home when you get the same feeling you had at the café. You turn around to glance over your shoulder. No one is there, but you know someone is watching you—or you’re losing your mind. That’s more likely.

You walk a little faster to hurriedly unlock the front door, slamming it shut behind you. Your heart is racing, and you need to take deep breaths when you finally lock your apartment door behind you.

“My sweet little fangirl,” Soldier Boy says, looking at all the pictures he snapped of you today. He could’ve hired a private investigator, but he loves the chase. “I knew someone was following me. I think we need to teach her a lesson…”

[luna-azzurra]

Hi Luna🙂

Today I came across your account by chance and literally devoured many of your posts. Your tips are worth their weight in gold and are making me rethink my character (my OC).

One thing I've noticed... I think his lore is well developed, but I'm not sure how he's supposed to achieve his goal anymore.

Er ist der Sohn eines der berüchtigtsten Schurken dieser Welt und möchte nicht im Schatten seines Vaters stehen. Er möchte seinen eigenen Weg gehen, aber kein „Held“ werden, denn das würde eine Verpflichtung bedeuten, die er nicht eingehen möchte.

His problem, however, is that he looks very similar to his father and has almost the same quirk (ability).

This leads to everyone seeing him only as their father and not as the person he really is.

My question now is: Would it be better for such a character to give up and simply become evil over time, or would some kind of “anti-hero” be better?

Hey (◍•ᴗ•◍)

First of all, thank you for the kind words, seriously, that means a lot. And second? Holy hell, I love this character setup. You’ve built a character with some incredible tension at his core. He’s not just trying to break out of a legacy, he’s trying to break out of his own reflection. He looks like his father. Has the same quirk. People see him and immediately slap the “villain” label on him before he even gets a word in.

That does something to a person.

When you’re constantly treated like you already are something, especially something dark, something dangerous...it’s not just annoying. It’s exhausting. It's isolating. Eventually, even the strongest-willed people start to ask, “Is there any point in fighting this?” And that’s what makes your question so powerful:

Should he give up and just become evil? Or should he try to become an anti-hero?

Let’s unpack both...

╰ Going Full Villain – “If I’m gonna be hated anyway…”

On the surface, this path makes sense. People already expect the worst. They project his father onto him every time he walks into a room. They don’t see him, but just the shadow he casts. So at some point, yeah, it might feel easier to stop trying to prove he’s not his dad and just… lean into it.

But that wouldn’t be surrender, that would be self-erasure. It’s not a choice rooted in desire or ideology, it’s rooted in burnout. Bitterness. A kind of emotional collapse.

You can absolutely write this path if you want to explore what it means to become the mask others forced onto you. There’s beauty in tragedy. There’s pain in watching someone slip into the very shape they swore they’d never take, just because no one gave them the chance to be more.

But… is that really what he wants? Or is it what he thinks is left?

╰ Becoming an Anti-Hero – “I’ll make my own damn category”

This, to me, is where his heart probably lives.

Because from what you described, he doesn’t want to be a villain. But he also doesn’t want to be a hero, like not in the clean, performative, cape-wearing sense. Heroism, to him, feels like a cage made of expectations. He doesn’t want to be anyone’s symbol. Doesn’t want to be a PR-friendly redemption arc. He just wants to be free—to exist outside the script written for him.

That’s anti-hero territory.

And the beautiful thing about anti-heroes is, that they fight for things they care about, not things they’re told to care about. They help people, but they break rules doing it. They’re messy, unpredictable, and wildly human.

Let your character become someone who carves out his own moral compass. Someone who helps the helpless but refuses to smile for the cameras. Someone who uses his father’s powers but twists them into something new. Something meaningful. Something his own.

And let him struggle with it. Let him wonder if he’s becoming what everyone feared, and then have a moment, one small, honest moment, where he chooses not to.

╰  One more thought, What if the real story isn’t about what side he chooses…but about who he becomes when no one’s looking?

Not villain. Not hero. Not symbol. Just… him.

A kid born in someone else’s shadow, learning, slowly, painfully, that he can make his own light, even if it flickers. Even if people don’t see it. Even if it scares them. And maybe that light doesn’t look heroic. Maybe it’s sharp-edged. Maybe it hurts people sometimes. But it’s his. And that is more powerful than anything he could be labeled.

You’re already thinking so deeply about this character, which tells me you care. And that’s how stories get written with soul. Don’t rush the answer. Let him show you who he is over time...

[userluhna]

࿔⋆ QUIET PLACES

hwang inho x deaf!reader

based on this request

words: 1.8k

warnings: reader is deaf. no squid game references. inho being soft.

a/n: sorry if anything i wrote comes off as offensive—it wasn’t my intention, and i really tried my best to be respectful.

enjoy! :)

you met at a quiet library, the kind where the air smells like old paper and dust. it was a place inho frequented so often that the staff knew him by name. he was perusing the shelves, looking for a new book to dive into. the wooden floor creaked softly under his footsteps, the only sound breaking the otherwise calm atmosphere. that’s when he noticed you.

you were standing in front of the very shelf he was eyeing, your gaze flicking between the titles as if searching for something specific. you looked a bit lost, maybe unsure of what you wanted, or maybe just unsure of how to get it. when you turned around and caught his gaze, there was a brief moment of hesitation. you apologized, your hands moving gently in the air to signal that he could go ahead.

he smiled softly, a little embarrassed, and stepped forward to grab the book he had been looking for. you watched him with interest, his easy confidence striking you. there was something calming about the way he moved.

you weren’t born deaf, it had happened in your teenage years. sometimes you still used your voice, mostly when you had to. but in public, you usually wore your implant, using it only when you needed to interact with others. it was a choice you had made, when you were at home you would usually take it off.

“need anything?” inho asked, his voice a bit cautious.

you hesitated for a moment, unsure if you should respond with your voice or if you should just sign. after a moment of silence, your lips parted slightly, and you began to sign, your voice low and not very clear. you could hear yourself with the implant, but it still felt foreign. your voice didn’t feel like it was yours anymore, it was distant, like you were hearing someone else speak.

he looked at you, trying to figure out if he should speak or write. his hands moved a little, unsure. you noticed that he was trying, though, which made you smile.

thank you, you signed, a simple gesture that made his eyes light up. in response, he took out a small piece of paper from his coat and wrote: it’s a good one, before handing it to you. the next week, you returned with the same book, and when inho saw you, he smiled softly. you held up the book he had recommended, raising an eyebrow playfully. you signed, not bad, in a simple but clear way so he could understand.

“you didn’t like it?” he asked, his voice soft.

you grimaced and pulled a notebook from your bag, scribbling, too many metaphors, before adding, but i finished it. he leaned forward to read it, grinning. “harsh critic.”

from there, your meetings became more frequent. sometimes he’d recommend new books, other times you would. as the weeks passed, you noticed that inho was picking up a few signs, the simple ones like hello, how are you, and thank you. it was simple, but for you, it was more than just words—it was effort. it was him trying to step into your world, not expecting you to adapt to his.

his movements were still a little stiff at times, but careful, attentive. you smiled at the gesture, your heart warming at how hard he was trying. getting better, you signed back, slow so he could catch each motion.

“that’s the plan,” he said —one time when you asked about him signing— rubbing the back of his neck. “i figured it’d be easier than making you read my messy handwriting forever.”

you laughed softly, a small sound escaping your mouth. you opened the notebook where you kept all of your conversations, a mix of your handwriting and his. you pointed to his handwriting, giving it a thumbs up.

“you kept that?” he asked, his heart swelling a little, though he wouldn’t say it out loud. you nodded, “i like them,” you said softly.

after that, the two of you grew closer. you’d meet at the bookstore, then take a tea or coffee at the back of it because they served some. every week, he would learn new phrases, testing them out with you. when he got them right, you would smile, applauding him, and if he failed, you would gently correct him, guiding his hand, adjusting his movements.

when he asked you out for the first time, it was through signing. his movements were slow, careful—he had been practicing, you could tell. do you want… coffee? with me? not here, his hands asked, and you smiled in return.

you waited for a beat before teasing him, signing back—yes.

the first date was a little overwhelming. the café was busier than either of you expected. inho noticed you seemed uncomfortable, a bit tense, not like the quiet space of the bookstore. he hesitated for a moment, before leaning in, his voice quiet. “you can take it off if it’s too much,” he said, gently pointing to your implant. you blinked in surprise, unsure if you should. your finger shook slightly, unsure of how to respond. you sure? you signed, your fingers trembling a little—whether from his soft gaze or the loud noises around you, you weren’t sure.

he smiled reassuringly. “i don’t mind.”

once you removed it, the world around you felt a little more distant. but when you spoke with inho, it all seemed to fade. the way he switched between speaking, writing on napkins, and signing was awkward at first, but it felt natural, like you were finally speaking the same language. you’d write on napkins or your notebook, sometimes speaking out loud, though it was rare.

i’m glad i said yes to coffee, you wrote on a napkin, your smile shy. he looked at you, a bit nervous but smiling softly. “i’m glad i asked,” he replied.

you had more dates after that, usually somewhere quieter, so you could hear his voice. but he always made sure you knew, if you were ever overwhelmed, you could take off the implant, and everything would be okay. you loved how attentive he was to you. when you saw each other, you’d talk about your lives—his little brother, how much he loved reading, and how you did too. you’d share things you hadn’t told anyone before, and you’d teach him new words or sentences. he was always excited to learn more, to communicate with you in ways that felt more personal.

on your first kiss, inho had practiced a few new sentences. he wanted to make sure it felt right, to let you know how much he cared. when he signed how much he was trying, how much he was doing this for you, it made your heart melt. his vulnerability, the rawness of what he was saying—it hit you harder than words ever could. you stepped closer, his hand finding your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin.

can i kiss you? he signed, his eyes not leaving yours. you didn’t respond with words. instead, you closed the space between you, your lips meeting his. the kiss was soft, not rushed, and when it deepened, you felt your heart race.

over the weeks, you noticed how much inho had practiced new words and phrases, trying to understand and adapt to your world. inho’s love wasn’t loud or dramatic. it was in the small things: remembering how you liked your tea, the way he signed your name, the new signs he created just for the two of you. it was in how he slowed down the world so you could breathe in it.

some days, the communication was frustrating. you’d sign something, thinking he understood, and he would nod, only for you to realize he hadn’t quite grasped what you meant. but you worked through it, talking things out. love, you learned, wasn’t always easy. sometimes it was messy. but it was okay, hearing wasn’t an obstacle.

he would look at you like you were the most precious thing in the world, like he would learn every language just to be able to talk to you. he stood up for you in public, always making sure that if anyone spoke to you and you couldn’t read their lips or didn’t have your implant, he would step in. he never spoke for you, though. he always let you speak for yourself. he always let you be independent.

when you first said “i love you,” you were hesitant. it was a quiet evening, just like the ones you’d often share together. at your place or his, it didn’t matter. you had been together for months now. he was reading next to you on the couch, your legs resting on his thigh, his thumb brushing your ankle. you watched him, admiring the way his eyes followed the words on the pages, the curve of his jaw, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

you tapped his shoulder. he looked up at you, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. “mhm?”

you signed, i love you, messier than usual, but he understood immediately. without hesitation, he signed it back, slowly, not rushed. he leaned in, his finger finding your cheek, his eyes soft.

“say it again,” he murmured, his voice low. your voice came out quiet, a little rough, but steady. “i love you.”

his eyes closed, savoring it, his hand brushing your cheek again. say it again, he signed playfully, making you laugh. you pushed his shoulder gently.

after a year and a half, you moved in together, savoring each moment with each other. inho had become fluent in sign language, and now, he spoke to you only in that way. sometimes, you’d catch him talking to himself or to you, even though he knew you couldn’t hear him unless you put your implant in. you’d tease him about it.

you’re talking to yourself again, you would sign with a smile. “i know,” he would reply, watching you walk toward him, your finger brushing his jaw.

then say more, you signed i’ll watch i promised.

you loved his voice, the way it sounded low and quiet, how it would make you shiver just a little. how he would speak to you, his voice soft, like he was telling you something only you could understand.

and him? he loved your voice, even though he didn’t hear it often. he loved the little sounds you made, the soft gasps when you were surprised, the sound of your laugh.

sometimes he just looked at you, the way your fingers would move while you signed or how mouth would part slightly before you spoke. he loved the silence with you.

sometimes he would kiss your neck softly, murmuring things, things you didn’t catch so he would look at you, sign it slowly, deliberately: you. drive. me. crazy.

masterlist

[strigimorphaes]

low - for @cycleprompttuesday's prompt: shower Very quickly written, not proofread, yaddayaddayadda Pogrog, 1130 words

Tadej goes under in the lion-claw bathtub, exhaling through his nose as lukewarm water covers his head. Now the sound of clanging pipes and running water reverberates so oddly. The hotel prides itself on being old like it’s a good thing (copper, red carpets, antique furniture), but Tadej doesn’t like it, thinking of rust, the stains between the tiles, the squealing sound the hinges make as the door opens.

He comes back up and for a moment expects to find the water dark with dirt, but of course it’s not – he showered after the training ride, those long miles with the whole team trying to get into his good graces. That talk about how Tadej will sweep the next monuments. It makes him tired, sometimes. So no, he didn’t need the bath, but it was something to do while he waited, testing out the tub, why not, and besides, he wanted to be clean. Like, really clean. And he wanted Primož to see him naked right away. To stain him right. No sitting around in proper clothes and talking. Just straight to this, Primož crossing the threshold and knowing what Tadej needs from him.

Primož stands there for a moment, looking at Tadej’s chest rising and falling under the water, before shedding his clothing carelessly as if it’s his room and Tadej’s the interloper. Tadej wonders what it means to have a relationship where they never feel equal; it’s always older and younger, mentor and apprentice, attack or defense, home turf or away game, whatever you call it. One person sitting, one person standing.  

“Move over,” Primož says, his voice low.

Tadej scoots back to the cool the edge of the tub. He pulls his knees up as Primož steps in. Primož nudges at Tadej’s feet with one of his own.

“I said make some room for me, Tadejcek.”

Tadej understands. He looks down as he parts his legs. Now Primož sits down, the water level changing in response. He leans forward, one hand on the side of the bathtub and one on Tadej’s thigh. He presses his fingers into Tadej’s flesh, his expression focused like during a race. His gaze roams Tadej’s body, and just like when they first did this, back when Tadej was far younger, Primož doesn’t try to hide that he looks for a needle mark. Tadej knows it, allows it. Primož’ attention washes over him all warm. It’s the concern that’s the point. They both know there are many ways to get to where they are and many ways to hide the evidence.

“Look at you,” Primož hums.

He keeps leaning in. He makes Tadej remember what fear feels like. When they play like this, they’re never in the present day – Primož acts the old national idol, Tadej abdicates his place on the UCI rankings and lets himself be young prey, shrinking. Tadej did want it back then. He wanted a break from the discipline of cycling at the highest level, he wanted to push limits, wanted it to be messed up. Only wanted it more after getting famous and taking captainship. He’s had other men since that first desire, but Primož is the only one really gives him what he wants. Only with him does Tadej end up feeling small like this. It got easier for both of them after things got bad in ‘20.

Water drips from the faucet. Tadej lets himself feel every unsettling centimeter as Primož’ palm creeps up his leg to his hip. He sinks a little deeper. More of his skin meets Primož’ under the water. The bathwater has cooled, but his body temperature rises. Primož’ hand draws near his cock, and Tadej twitches in response.

“Don’t,” he begs. They both like that, the begging, the way the word echoes off the tiles. “It’s not – I’ll tell someone.”

Primož shakes his head. “That won’t be good for your career, will it?”   

Always lines like that. Few people get to tell Tadej there’s something he can’t do, but in the moment, when Primož leans over him, Tadej allows himself to believe it’s true. The sensation of being caught is what makes the uneasy, nervous feeling he sometimes carries all day, the stuff he can’t show to his mates, settle into something he feels between his ribs where it might dissolve if Primož treats him right.

“Besides,” Primož adds, “you like it.”

Tadej tries to cover himself with his arms. “What are you going to do?”

Primož’ features soften, but there’s still that bleak tone to his voice that Tadej knows too well. “I’m just going to wash your hair.”

He drains a bit of the water from the tub – it’s only up to Tadej’s armpits, now. Taking the shampoo, he lathers it up in his hands before twining his fingers into Tadej’s hair. It’s rough, nails scraping against the scalp. A scent of cloying fake vanilla spreads in the humid air. Primož grabs what he can, but Tadej’s hair is too short to really pull. It still feels good. The soap runs freely down Tadej’s face; he can’t open his eyes, can’t see what Primož looks like, but knows that Primož looks at his small body pushed to the back of the bathtub. Some foam gets in Tadej’s nose when he inhales; Primož doesn’t care.

Primož stands up – Tadej feels the change in water level. There’s some clanging, the sound of water through the pipes again, and then Primož saying, “Eyes open.”

Tadej wipes away the suds as best he can, but it still stings, his eyes watering as he looks up. He has to lay his head back. Pushing the plug with his foot, Primož drains a bit more of the water – Tadej’s exposed to the air down to his navel. And in Primož’ hand is the detachable showerhead.

Tadej wants his touch again, those strong hands. What he gets instead is Primož turning on the water and Tadej makes an involuntary sound, flinches, raises his hands uselessly up in an attempt to shield himself from the ice cold spray. He pushes himself back until the tub digs into his shoulder, water sloshing around him and goosebumps forming everywhere ‘cause it stings, it hurts after the heat of the water. Tadej fights to breathe.

Primož, above him, smiles. He lets the water run through Tadej’s hair, washing the soap out slowly but surely while Tadej shivers hard, instinctually trying to get lower and away only for Primož to keep him sitting where he is with a hand on the side of his head.

Tadej’s breaths come in quick little gasps, the icy water running in rivulets down his face and body. He reaches between his legs as Primož presses a thumb past his lips, forcing his mouth open.

[pardonmydelays]

taylor swift lyrics that keep u up at night?

*takes a deep breath*

remember looking at this room, we loved it cause of the light now i just sit in the dark and wonder if it's time.

(oversharing in the tags)

[5a-alf]

I fear Kevin Day is the type of person whose struggle always came second. He funcioned enough that while everyone knew he wasn't alright, it was also nobody's problem, as someone else was actively having a harder time and they took precedence. He internalises all his problems and keeps going and going but he is fueled by alchool and sheer desperation a 100% of the time. If he were to stop for even a second he wouldn't know how to start again.

Did he ever, at somepoint in his life -away from the ex foxes, a pro player, married to Thea- wish he had it worse, just so that maybe it would have been his turn being saved? Being first? How badly would he feel, just one second after thinking it, because he knows damn well he has enough trauma to fill a stadium and he isn't actually jealous of his friends that had it worse, he isn't . That's a fucked up thing to think, stop it, stop it.

Would he still drink himself into a stupor to shoote the ache, to banish the thought? That's the help he got, when he was at his worst, a drink, and then two, and then a thousand. And it worked, it made him go, it picked him up when he was down, and now he can't get down without crashing.

Did he wish to be saved? Did he hope somebody, anybody, took the time and put in the effort to help him, just because they saw him down, not because he begged, but because they noticed he could use a hand. Or two, actually. Was it torment, to always be under the spotlight, yet never been seen? Did he run toward fame hoping the more eyes on him meant it would be easier to be noticed?