#or something not really physically demanding

[the-oblivious-writer]

With Her I Die |17|

Past J.T to Eventual S.S x Female Reader

Chapter Seventeen: Delayed Motion Sickness

warnings: graphic depictions of cannibalism and discussion of consuming human flesh, severe psychological trauma and mental health issues , graphic descriptions of vomiting/illness, discussions of grief and death, brief mention of potential suicidal ideation, emotional distress, and existential horror.

note(s): tai: "so where the hell are we gonna get food?" lottie: "we're gonna dig up y/n's dead girlfriend!" y/n: "yeah, dumbass, we're gonna dig up- dig up y/n's dead girlfriend?!?!??"

taglist: @morganismspam23 @slutforabbyanderson @serendippindots

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

The world returns in fragments—voices filtering through darkness, the sting of cold against your face, hands gripping your shoulders. You register movement, being half-carried back toward the cabin, someone murmuring reassurances that don't penetrate the fog of horror enveloping your mind.

"Get her inside," Tai's voice cuts through the haze, authoritative even in crisis.

Your stomach lurches again as they maneuver you through the doorway. You twist violently in their grasp, desperate to avoid fouling the cabin floor.

"She's gonna be sick again," Mari warns, just as you double over.

Someone thrusts a bucket beneath your chin just in time, and you empty whatever's left in your stomach—bile mostly, burning your throat and bringing tears to your eyes. A hand holds your hair back; another rubs circles between your shoulder blades.

"It's okay," Travis murmurs from somewhere above you. "Get it all out."

When the heaving finally subsides, you're guided to your sleeping area, hands gently pressing you down onto your makeshift bed. A cup appears at your lips—water, blessed water to wash away the acrid taste. You sip gratefully, hands trembling too badly to hold the cup yourself.

Through tear-blurred vision, you make out faces hovering around you—concerned, wary, exchanging glances loaded with meaning you can't decipher. The cabin has gone unnaturally quiet, everyone waiting for whatever comes next.

"What happened?" Tai finally asks, her voice uncharacteristically gentle.

You open your mouth, but the words lodge in your throat. How do you articulate the horror unfolding in your mind? The memories bursting through barriers you didn't know you'd constructed?

"Jackie," you manage, the name barely a whisper.

Something passes between them—a look, a silent conversation flowing above your head. Confusion crawls through your fog of panic.

"She remembered," Lottie says from somewhere to your left, her voice strangely calm. "What we did."

You turn toward her voice, finding her perched on the edge of a nearby trunk, her expression serene despite the tension crackling through the room.

"What are you talking about?" you rasp, though part of you already knows—the part that's been drowning in repressed memories since you stepped outside.

No one speaks. The silence stretches, taut with unspoken truths.

"Someone fucking tell me," you demand, voice gaining strength born of desperation. "Tell me I didn't... that we didn't..."

"You really didn't know?" Natalie asks, incredulous. "This whole time?"

"Know what?" The words tear from your throat, edged with hysteria.

Another exchange of glances, another silent communication from which you're excluded. Then Van steps forward, crouching beside your bed.

"After Jackie died," she begins carefully, "things got pretty bad. Food was scarce, and we were all starving, and—"

"No." You shake your head violently, as if the physical motion can dispel the horror taking shape. "No, we buried her. We waited for the ground to thaw and we buried her."

Van's eyes are soft with pity. "We didn't bury her, Y/N."

Your name in her mouth somehow makes it worse—makes it real in a way nothing else has. You pull away, pressing yourself against the wall.

"You're lying," you insist, gaze darting from face to face, searching for someone to contradict her. "We wouldn't... I wouldn't..."

"It was your idea," Lottie says, the simple statement falling like a stone into still water.

Your breath catches. "What?"

"Not exactly," Tai interjects quickly, shooting Lottie a warning look. "It wasn't like that."

"Then what was it like?" The question emerges as a plea, begging for an explanation that could somehow make sense of the fragments surfacing in your mind.

Tai sighs, settling on the floor beside your bed. "We were starving. Really starving. The hunting had failed for days, and the last of our rations were gone. Jackie was... she was already gone. Her body was just—"

"Meat," you finish, the word tasting like poison.

Tai nods once, her expression grim. "It was about survival. We all agreed."

"Including me." It's not a question anymore.

"You were... different after Jackie died," Travis offers hesitantly. "Not really yourself."

"Different how?" Despite the dread pooling in your stomach, you need to know.

Travis looks to Tai, clearly uncomfortable with being the messenger. Tai meets your gaze steadily.

"You were obsessed with her body," she says bluntly. "You wouldn't let us move her at first. You'd sit with her for hours, talking to her like she was still there. You'd arrange her hair, fix her clothes."

The memory surfaces unbidden—Jackie's frost-stiffened fingers in yours, combing through her tangled hair with a makeshift brush, carefully braiding the strands while chattering about nothing, everything, as if she could still hear you.

"You'd dress her up," Mari adds softly. "Change her outfits. Put that lipstick we found in her bag on her."

Your stomach lurches again, but there's nothing left to expel. "Oh god."

"When we finally decided to... use her body," Tai continues carefully, "you were the one who volunteered to... prepare her."

The knife in your hand. Blood on snow. The weight of flesh being carved from bone. Your breath comes in short, painful gasps as the memories assault you.

"Stop," you plead, pressing your palms against your eyes as if you could physically block the images. "Please stop."

A hand touches your shoulder—Lottie, moved from her perch to kneel beside you. "The wilderness provides," she says softly. "Jackie provided. There's no shame in that."

You recoil from her touch, something primal and panicked clawing at your insides. "Don't. Don't fucking touch me."

Lottie withdraws her hand but remains close, her eyes locked on yours with that same unnerving intensity from the forest. "You didn't do anything wrong."

A bitter laugh escapes you. "I ate the woman I loved, but sure, no big deal, right?" The words hang in the silence, your declaration of love for Jackie spoken aloud for the first time. "Where's Shauna?"

The question seems to catch them off guard, heads turning to scan the cabin. Shauna is nowhere to be seen.

"She was just here," Van says, frowning. "She helped bring you in."

The realization dawns slowly, a new horror layering over the first. "She knew," you whisper. "She knew I didn't remember."

No one contradicts you. The silence is confirmation enough.

"Why didn't any of you tell me?" Your voice cracks on the question. "Why let me go on thinking—believing—"

"We thought you knew," Natalie interrupts, looking genuinely confused. "You were there. You participated. You ate the same meals as the rest of us."

"I don't remember!" The shout tears from your throat. "I don't remember any of it! The meals, the... preparation. None of it!"

"That's not possible," Tai says skeptically. "You were functional. You talked, you worked, you—"

"I don't remember the first few weeks after she died," you insist, desperation lending strength to your voice. "It's all... fragmented. Blurry. I thought it was grief, or shock, or..." You trail off, the implication of your words sinking in.

"Dissociation," Lottie supplies calmly. "Your mind protected you from what you couldn't handle."

"Until now," you finish bitterly. "Until I fucked you in the same shed where we..." You can't complete the sentence, nausea rising again at the connection your mind has made.

Lottie doesn't flinch at your crudeness. "The body remembers what the mind tries to forget."

"Jesus, Lottie, give it a rest with the fortune cookie wisdom," Natalie snaps, then turns to you. "Look, this is fucked up. The whole situation is fucked up. But none of us knew you'd blocked it out."

You shake your head, trying to reconcile their version of events with the gaping holes in your memory. "I thought we buried her," you repeat, softer now. "I had this... this mental image of us digging a grave when the ground thawed. Saying goodbye."

"We did have a ceremony," Van offers gently. "After. We said words for her, thanked her for... for helping us survive. It was Lottie's idea."

"A ritual," Lottie corrects. "To honor her sacrifice."

The door opens before you can respond, a gust of cold air preceding Shauna as she slips inside. Her eyes find you immediately, widening slightly at your conscious state. She looks different somehow—younger, vulnerable in a way you rarely see.

"Hey," she says awkwardly, hovering by the door. "You're awake."

"Where were you?" The question comes out sharper than intended.

Shauna shifts uncomfortably. "Just needed some air."

"Right," you reply, a bitter edge creeping into your voice. "Me too."

A tense silence falls. Tai stands, motioning to the others. "Let's give them a minute," she suggests, though it's clearly an order rather than a request.

One by one, they filter away to various corners of the cabin, providing the illusion of privacy in a space too small for secrets. Only Lottie lingers, her gaze flicking between you and Shauna with undisguised interest.

"Lottie," Tai says pointedly. "Come on."

With visible reluctance, Lottie rises, her fingertips brushing your arm as she leaves—a touch so brief you might have imagined it. Shauna watches the interaction, her expression tightening before she approaches, taking the spot Lottie vacated.

"You knew," you say without preamble, keeping your voice low enough that it won't carry to the others. "You knew I didn't remember."

Shauna doesn't deny it. "I suspected," she admits. "The way you talked about Jackie, about... after. It didn't line up."

"And you didn't think to mention it?" The hurt in your voice is unmistakable. "To say, 'Hey, by the way, we ate your dead girlfriend'?"

"Your relationship wasn't exactly public," Shauna replies automatically, then winces at her own tone. "Sorry. That wasn't... I didn't mean—"

"Whatever." You turn away, facing the wall. "Just go away."

"Y/N, please." Her hand lands on your shoulder, gentle but insistent. "I thought I was protecting you."

"Protecting me?" You twist back to face her, incredulous. "By letting me live in a fantasy world where my biggest crime was leaving her body in the snow?"

"You were broken after she died," Shauna says quietly. "You'd sit with her body for hours, talking to her, brushing her hair like she was a doll. You weren't eating, weren't sleeping. We were afraid you'd—" She stops, swallowing hard.

"Kill myself?" you finish for her.

Her eyes answer you, never leaving yours. "Then the food ran out. Everyone was getting desperate. Lottie suggested that Jackie... that her body could..."

"And I volunteered," you supply, the memory surfacing like something dead rising to the water's surface. "To cut her up."

Shauna flinches at your bluntness but doesn't contradict you. "You said it should be someone who loved her. That she'd want to help us survive."

A hysterical laugh bubbles up your throat. "That's rich. I'm sure she'd be thrilled to know we treated her like a fucking Sunday roast."

"It wasn't like that," Shauna insists, her voice dropping even lower. "It was... respectful. As much as it could be."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" The tears you've been fighting finally spill over, hot trails down cold cheeks. "That we said grace before tearing into her like a bunch of paganists?"

Shauna's hand finds yours, gripping it tightly despite your half-hearted attempt to pull away. "We thought you'd processed it."

"I forgot it," you correct bitterly. "Locked it away in some dark corner of my mind where I wouldn't have to look at it."

Shauna's thumb traces circles on your palm, the gesture achingly familiar. "Why tonight?"

You close your eyes, seeing again the congealed stew, feeling the texture on your tongue. "The food. Something about tonight's dinner just... connected."

Shauna is quiet for a long moment, her hand still holding yours. "The way you talked about Jackie... it was like you had this whole narrative in your head about what happened after she died. A story where we honored her properly, buried her, moved on naturally."

"And you just let me believe it." The hurt resurfaces, sharper now.

"At first, I wasn't sure," Shauna admits. "I thought maybe you were just... I don't know, coping differently. But then that fight we had yesterday, when you asked about the baby..." She trails off, shaking her head. "I realized you really didn't remember. But by then, you were already so angry with me, and then with Lottie, you were—"

You pull your hand from hers, a new memory surfacing. "The baby."

Shauna's expression shutters. 

"You still never told me what happened..." Your words hang between you, loaded with implications neither of you is ready to face.

"Please don't," Shauna whispers, echoing your own plea from earlier. "Please don't ask me that. I can't go through this conversation again. Not tonight. Not when you're already dealing with..." She gestures vaguely, encompassing the situation, your breakdown, everything.

The refusal should anger you—another secret, another piece of truth withheld. Instead, an odd calm settles over you, a numbness that's almost comforting in its completeness.

"Okay," you agree, surprising yourself as much as her. "Not tonight."

Relief flashes across her face, quickly followed by wariness, as if she doesn't quite trust your acquiescence. "Are you... how are you feeling?"

"How am I feeling?" You repeat the question with a hollow laugh. "I just found out I ate someone I loved. Processing that might take a minute."

Shauna winces but doesn't back down. "Do you need anything? Water? More blankets?"

The normalcy of the offer—its domestic banality in the face of your horrific revelation—strikes you as absurdly funny. A giggle escapes you, then another, building quickly into semi-hysterical laughter that you can't seem to control.

Shauna watches with growing alarm. "Y/N? Hey, it's okay. Just breathe."

"It's really not okay," you gasp between fits of laughter that are rapidly transforming into sobs. "It's so far from okay that okay isn't even visible from here."

Arms wrap around you suddenly—Shauna pulling you against her chest, holding you through the storm of emotions. You should push her away, maintain the anger that's been your shield since returning to the cabin. Instead, you collapse into her embrace, sobs wracking your body as the full weight of reality crashes down.

"I ate her," you choke out against Shauna's shoulder. "I ate Jackie."

"We all did," Shauna murmurs, her hands making soothing motions across your back. "We survived because of her."

The distinction feels meaningless in the face of your guilt, but you cling to Shauna anyway, desperate for any anchor in the storm of your fractured memories.

"I loved her," you whisper, the admission worn smooth with repetition in your mind but rarely spoken aloud.

"I know," Shauna says softly. "She knew too."

Something in her tone makes you pull back slightly, studying her face. "And I love you."

Her eyes meet yours, something vulnerable and raw in their depths. "You should get some rest."

The dismissal hangs between you, neither reciprocation nor rejection but something in between. 

"You're right..." you say, exhaustion suddenly washing over you. 

Shauna's hand finds yours again, squeezing gently. "Don't disappear again. Please."

The plea in her voice tugs at something in your chest. "I won't."

"Promise?"

"Promise." The word feels binding in a way few things have since the crash upended your world.

Shauna nods, seeming satisfied. She starts to rise, but your hand tightens on hers, keeping her in place.

"Stay?" The request slips out before you can reconsider it. "Just... I don't want to be alone with my thoughts right now."

She hesitates only briefly before settling back beside you. "I'll stay."

Across the cabin, you catch Lottie watching, her expression unreadable in the firelit shadows. She inclines her head slightly when your eyes meet—acknowledgment without challenge. Whatever existed between you in the forest, in the meat shed, feels distant now, overshadowed by the horrors unearthed from your own mind.

You lean against Shauna, allowing your eyes to close, hoping for the oblivion of sleep without dreams. The memories will still be there tomorrow, waiting to be examined, processed, somehow integrated into your understanding of yourself. For now, though, there's just the warmth of human contact, the steady rhythm of Shauna's breathing, and the fragile promise of not facing the darkness alone.

"You'll be okay," Shauna whispers, her lips brushing your hair. "We both will."

You don't answer, don't point out the hollowness of such assurances in the face of your collective trauma. Instead, you let yourself believe it, just for tonight—a comforting fiction to cling to while the truth settles its weight upon your shoulders.

Outside, the wind howls through bare trees, a sound too similar to human keening. Inside, wrapped in Shauna's arms, you finally surrender to exhaustion, sliding into darkness with Jackie's name on your lips and the taste of memory like ashes on your tongue and you can't help but feel a wave of deja vu wash over you. 

[inthekitschen]

What they're attracted to

Some of the qualities the ghouls are attracted to in a partner

Frostheim

The King | Jin Kamurai

Jin likes someone who can stand their ground

He knows he's an asshole, so when someone gives it back, he can't help but respect it.

I also think he would like someone who is passionate. After the clash, he lost his own drive, so he likes seeing his partner care about something

The Advisor | Tohma Ishibashi

Tohma likes someone who's good with people. I think he had to learn how to navigate politically when he transferred to Frostheim, so someone who is able to do it naturally would intrigue him

Along with that, he likes someone who can surprise him/challenge his worldview.

He's good at predicting people, so when you do something outside of his expectations, he can't help but be fascinated.

The Archer | Kaito Fuji

Kaito likes someone who's nice

It sounds simple, but truly, he's around rich assholes all day. All you have to do is be kind and he'll fall in love.

He's also really insecure, so he admires someone who is confident in themselves. It would honestly help his own self esteem.

The Knight | Lucas Errant

Lucas likes someone who's steadfast in their beliefs.

It doesn't have to be the same beliefs as his; if you're able to defend your position and stay true to yourself, he respects you

That being said, he also wants a partner who can admit when they're wrong. There's a difference between being steadfast and stubborn.

Vagastrom

The Ex-Con | Alan Mido

Alan likes a partner who can defend themselves, whether it be physically or verbally

He's very protective, so it would give him ease of mind

Alan would be drawn to someone who is smart and/or artistic. He's attracted to dedication and skill, it’s a show of hard work

The Influencer | Leo Kurosagi

It's less about what Leo wants and more about what he needs in a partner

You really have to be thick-skinned. If you're someone who's on the more sensitive side, I don't foresee a relationship lasting long

He needs someone who will call him on his shit. When he's in a place to receive it, he actually responds pretty okay.

The Rider | Sho Haizono

Sho likes someone who can chill.

He's pretty social and active, so I think he would appreciate someone with similar interests, but I can also see him going for a total nerd

I think he likes someone who is passionate about their interests/hobbies, no matter what those hobbies are.

Jabberwock

The Ranger | Haru Sagara

Haru loves someone who is a hard worker! No matter what it is that you do, if you're dedicated, he's in love.

But I think he also loves someone who is able to slow down and relax. He needs help in that department lol

I think he's drawn to someone who is a bit more quiet. It's a nice balance of energy for him.

The Free Spirit | Towa Otonashi

Towa loves someone who loves life!

He also wants someone who is a free spirit, similar to him. He doesn't want a partner who drags him down.

Overall, he wants his soulmate to be on the more optimistic side.

The Slacker | Ren Shiranami

Ren wants someone who can relax

But he secretly admires someone with a good work ethic. He would never admit it though

He also likes someone that’s funny. He'll roll his eyes at your jokes or comments, but he likes how quickly you're able to come up with them

Sinostra

The Gambler | Taiga Hoshibami

You need to be a freak (at least a little bit)

If you can't look down the barrel of a gun without blinking, he's not remembering you

I also think Taiga would like someone with a more calm disposition. It would soothe him.

The Sniper | Romeo Lucci

Romeo wants someone smart. He has to deal with idiots all day, if you're not able to keep up with his demands and acronyms, GTFO.

Someone who's calmer would also complement him well. He might (heavy on the might) be more willing to relax.

I think he would also be attracted to a natural leader. Seeing you take charge and stand on business would be one of his favorite sights.

The Paralegal | Ritsu Shinjo

Ritsu loves a hard worker. Someone who is as dedicated to their chosen field as he is would be his top quality he looks for in a partner.

He also wants someone who is smart. He's a little pretentious (which I think he would get over in time) so he wants a partner who understands his references to literature or is willing to expand their knowledge

He likes someone who encourages him to expand his horizons. The implication that he needs to might offend him, but once he gets over that, he's excited to learn new things

Hotarubi

The Actor | Subaru Kagami

Subaru really admires someone who is self-assured.

It's a quality he lacks in himself, to be so unapologetic about who you are, that he can't help but be fascinated by it.

He's also attracted to kindness. He just appreciates someone who is nice to others.

The Flutist | Haku Kusanagi

Haku isn't picky when it comes to a partner, but I think similar to Towa, Haku wants someone who has a love for life

He's attracted to passion. If you have something you're really passionate about, he likes seeing you in action.

He would like to have a partner who is more open than he is

The Poet | Zenji Kotadama

Zenji would appreciate a partner who is an artist

It doesn't have to be a certain type of art; I think any medium of finding beauty in the world draws him to you.

I can also see him with a partner who is more introspective. He would like the balance to his energy

Obscuary

The Vampire | Edward Hart

Ed truly has no preference. He's been alive for 400 years, I doubt he has much of a 'type' anymore

If he did, I imagine it would be someone who is a homebody so he can spend time with you

I could also see him seeking out a partner who is more proactive about doing chores lol

The Reaper | Rui Mizuki

Rui is also not picky

I think he would admire someone who is studious. Idk why, I can just see him complimenting you for being smart (even though he compliments you for everything lol)

He would also appreciate someone who is quiet/introspective. He just likes the calm energy.

The Werewolf | Lyca Colt

Lyca wants someone who is upfront about their feelings.

He knows he isn't the best at interacting with people yet. He wants to be better. He wants you to tell him what he does wrong so he can be better.

He would also like someone easygoing. He gets riled up quickly, so having a calmer partner would balance him out.

Mortkranken

The Doctor | Yuri Isami

Yuri wants a partner who is smart enough to keep up with him. He gets irritated having to explain himself multiple times.

He would also like someone who is confrontational/argumentative. He says a lot of out of pocket shit, I think he would surprisingly like it if someone called him out on it

He likes a challenge. Sure, he acts like he wants someone who fawns over him and listens to everything he says, but I feel like he would get bored of that quickly.

The Monster | Jiro Kirisaki

I can see Jiro being attracted to someone who is more emotional. He likes seeing your reactions to things and picking your brain for why you have those reactions.

He would probably look for more practical qualities in a partner. Someone who can defend themselves against anomalies, and has at least basic medical knowledge.

For him, it’s less about attraction and more about being a good fit for each other.

[yasuumiu]

𝑶𝑵𝑪𝑬, his heart whole; ᘓ ݂ ໋ . 🍎

SYNOPSIS. his entire life, he’s never looked away from you. how do you not see this; how can you not know? what must he do to make you see?

WORD COUNT. 3.2k | WARNINGS. cunnilingus, use of pet names, angst.

𓏲  .⋆ﾟ. ͘ ࣭⠀⸰ absolutely devastated by this pixelated man, and cannot form any coherent thoughts except this. enjoy 🤍

This is what it will be like from now on, he thinks. Me here, and her over there, far away from me, a place I can never reach. Two lines parallel to each other, where before was one.

Fine by him. If he gets to look over you, after you, the separation is bearable. Distinguishable, like an arm losing feeling over time when all its life it’s known otherwise, like his arm—the hand relaxes the unconscious fist, its fingers flexing once, his jaw clenching at the numbness of the movement; he clearly remembers, not too long ago—he wants to remember, he wants—but bearable.

Your necklace scrapes against his chest, the constant reminder, the gift that haunts, the promise he can never break. And still, you—you, you, you—beyond the glass, laughing away with these so-called friends you haven’t seen in a while, not a care in the world about what time it is, about the unanswered calls on your phone, about Caleb—

(He does not let this thought fester like all the others, he will keep this to himself, he will do this for you.) (One of them is a man, don’t move, stay, she’ll get mad, she’ll demand fucking space again—how do you know him, where did you meet, who is he, what does he want—well, what every man wants, what everyone will want if he’s not there to keep you safe—how can you be so naive, so blind—and you dare order him away?)

You’re all grown up now, and so sure of everything, aren’t you, pip-squeak?

He’s sick to his stomach. Even after all these years, the countless sleepless nights tossing and turning, insomnia beating on his skull like a well versed drum, the relentless self-training; teaching himself how to physically turn away from you, all the appropriate responses, but forbidden to cross the Invisible Line, the line that was kept in place for your sake, your selfish convenience; how to keep himself stock-still, to pretend to be normal for you, to not reply instinctually to what he feels for you, how he feels—it all threatens to obliterate him as soon as he loses even an ounce of control.

Shove it down. Shove.It.Down. You’re used to it. You cannot fail now. You cannot fail.

Caleb straightens, his resolve absolute, his purpose unshaken. It’s pitiful, he’s well aware, but it’s all he has left. You’re all he has left. The body holding together knows.

He scorched the earth to find all your missing pieces, slowly reassembling how he knew you before, without thinking you might’ve changed in the time between then and after. And it doesn’t matter. He never once looks away from you. He does it all very, very diligently. And if something is wrong, if he did do something wrong—will you please consider forgiving him? You see, he’s tired. He’s been doing this for a really long time. Over and over with no end in sight.

I’m Caleb. I’ll always be by your side.

Never faltering.

It’s okay if you’ve forgotten. I’ll remind you. I’m Caleb. I’ll always be by your side.

You won’t be alone anymore. I’ll always be by your side.

It’s okay if you’ve forgotten . . . It’s okay.

I’m Caleb.

I forget things too. Everything, sometimes.

You’re the only thing that brings him back. The anchor that pulls him in. His very own navigation system. He doesn’t go anywhere without you. He can’t.

He hides, instead. Watches from afar. That way, you never part from him, and he can keep an eye on you, just how it’s always been. He keeps his hands very close to himself, and he doesn’t dare want any more than he’s allowed to. What happened a few minutes ago—it’s erased, discarded somewhere deep within him, somewhere he’d have to die to reach.

The coffee shop’s door opens, and the sun comes out, burning. You don’t notice him, not at first. This way, he gets to see you happy a little while longer. The friendly way you say your goodbyes, the soft wave of your hand, your mouth, how it pulls at the corners, how the clouds have moved, how concepts like redemption and salvation become a little more real, a little more possible for someone like him.

Do you know—the Heavens come down for you? And him, forever the snake, forever the apple given, slithering towards the Garden of Eden, condemned to entice but never taste, the original sin, punished to come close but not close enough, exiled, accursed.

He fills with desire, he prays. He speaks your name very quietly, and he hopes, and he waits.

When your eyes meet his own, it’s the Chronorift Catastrophe all over again. Massive stars die, their cores collapsing, the gravity immense, the density so high not even light can escape it. Black holes are born out of his Evol—the world caves in on itself. You blink and it happens again. Caleb has no control over it. Over himself, over this unspoken thing between you that’s been happening ever since creation.

Reprogram. Reprogram.

The man hugs you, unaware. Caleb can’t fault him, funnily enough, though it takes everything he fucking has not to answer to the nasty tightening of familiar jealousy inside his chest. Lightning courses through his veins, fingers begging to destroy, to bleed, to make an even bigger mess of things.

No.

He refuses adamantly, and moves his head to the side, severing all contact with you and your dangerous gaze, choosing to bite his tongue until he tastes copper, and ground himself to the cement underneath his boots.

He wants to grab you and shake you and demand. He doesn’t suppose you know what that means. He doesn’t know either. He knows so little about you these days, it seems. Much less about himself, and all this distance you’ve put between you. The unfairness isn’t lost on him. What is he doing here, waiting like this, when you’ve so easily moved on? If he had never glimpsed into that little window of your life today, would he have even known?

That there’s no value to his life anymore? That he signed it all away for the safety of a girl that puts her life in danger so easily, so recklessly, at every possible turn? What will it take to make you realize the evil lurking two steps behind at all times, and what if he’s not there when it decides— What does he have to do?

What more? What else?

Anger. Tap into it. It’s safer. It’s what you have. Copious fucking amounts of it.

He doesn’t see the way you don’t react to the man’s advances. How you hesitate after that. How sorry you are.

“How long have you been standing there?”

Caleb deflects. Puts on that see-through smile you hate the most, his amethyst eyes glinting with secrets and artificial sweetness. It’s getting harder to pretend, much harder to play the convincing role and keep the circus going. He attempts it anyway, even with the look you’re giving him. Against it.

“Not long,” he lies, and motions for you to follow. “It’s late. Did your phone die, or something?”

You lie too. “Yeah, sorry, were you calling? Forgot to charge it, I guess.”

“Hmm.”

Then, “How’d you know where I was, anyway?”

He doesn’t reply. You huff and slow down your steps. Caleb shuts his eyes tight for a second, breathing deeply, fighting multiple urges. This is already going terribly. He was only supposed to pick you up and bring you home. Ask if you had fun and deliver you to your room, where you were to stay for the rest of the night. It’s never easy with you. It will never be.

“Caleb.”

“Pip-squeak.”

“Answer me.”

He swallows with difficulty and resumes walking, fists at his sides. He doesn’t hear your footsteps trailing, but he does not stop. You’ve been stubborn all your life, but so has he. There is nothing wrong with having a way to know where you are. It is his job. His top priority. You can’t possibly be mad, especially with the way you’ve been acting. He can’t have you venture too far off by yourself. Not when he’s so close . . .

“Get in the car,” he says firmly, opening the door for you.

There’s fire crackling in your eyes. He’s seen it a million times. He’s wished to light himself on it, hand outstretched, a willing sacrifice for you. What will you say now, if he offered that same hand? Would you recognize the wrongness of it? Would you stomp your foot how you did when you were little, the whole world at your beck and call because he made it be so? Would you carry him back like he did?

“Is that the Colonel’s order?” your voice is full of the same emotion that governs him. It pierces through all defenses and lands straight through his heart. A clean shot.

He finds the damn thing still beating.

Caleb sighs and leans against the door of his vehicle, arms crossing one over the other. You mimic his stance. He smirks at you, feigning amusement, terrified inside.

“You already know the answer, sweetheart.”

“I want to hear you say it,” you retort, and he can’t stand the disappointment in your voice.

He ignores the very prominent tug of pure shame, and puts the fleet’s officer cap of indifference on for a little longer. “What do you want me to say?”

“That this is insane! That it cannot possibly go on.” You move faster than he anticipates, your small hands shoving at him with all your might yet failing to move even an inch of him. You try anyway. Again and again, until your eyes are wet, and your cheeks red with fury. He lets you, does nothing to stop you.

Not even when there’s people passing by, their accusatory glances messing with his already quickening temper. You can do whatever you want to him, but he cannot let you tarnish your reputation as a hunter for something as trivial as this. He won’t accept it.

“I’m taking you home. You can be mad all you want there.”

The silence that ensues makes him wish for a second death. A slow, painful one. One he can never come back from.

Because he’s responsible for this mistrust, this suspicion you won’t seem to shake off. He caused it, it’s his fault, his fault, his fault—

No matter how hard he tries to fix it. It’s beyond repair.

You’re leaving.

First thing in the morning. This was clearly a mistake, you tell him while slamming your suitcase open on his floor. He watches you do so, disgusted with despair. I’m not sure what I was thinking, clothes on his bed, shoes by his front entrance, your brush on his sink, your hand tearing apart whatever semblance of a man he scrambled to come up with to appease you.

My Caleb is gone.

He lunges towards you, your gasp the only indication of fear; he knew, of course he knew. You were afraid of this new version of him. The version that somehow commands an entire fleet, goes on classified missions that go against everything you’ve worked for as a Hunter, and keeps secrets from the same someone he used to sing lullabies to during bad summer storms. The version that would lock her inside a stranger’s room, inside a stranger’s house.

But really, wasn’t he always like this? The signs were there all along. He’d locked you in the attic before. He’d kept you there all day, knowing very well how you’d react, how you’d run to him after the coincidental rescue, declare him the hero. This darkness has been inside him for a long time. You’ve just been very good at looking the other way, very good at taking, not so very good at giving. Are you, pip-squeak?

When I don’t fit your definition of who ‘Caleb’ is, you simply shun me away and wipe your hands clean of me. I’m the one stuck here. Astute. Unable to move. Unable to let you go.

It ends here.

Your wrist is impossibly small as his fingers wrap around it, yanking, pulling you against his feverish body. You fight but only for a moment, his other hand coming to rest right above your mouth, rendering you mute, eyes wide, expecting, calculating.

“Will I do it?” He muses, violet eyes boring into yours, his desire palpable, his want a thousand knives, all double sided, honed for the perfect kill. You breathe deeply, trying to calm down that beating heart he so envies. Caleb leans further, hovering over you like a nightmare. “Will you let me, (Y/N)?”

You shake your head slightly, your brows furrowing with poignant emotion. Sadness. Towards what? Him? He can’t help but chuckle at the clueless girl in front of him. How he fought to stay the kindhearted boy from your childhood, at least in your eyes. He would’ve kept with the facade all his years, if it meant you’d always look at him with that proud expression he remembers from his college days. If it was truly up to him, you would’ve never seen him like this.

Alas, it was never up to him. Not once. Not ever.

“I must be pretty fucking pathetic to you, isn’t that right?”

Your gaze shatters and drops. Caleb presses on, fed up with himself, the self-loathing successfully managing to escape that dark pit at the bottom of his soul.

“What game are we playing now, pip-squeak? How do I win it?” He tilts your chin up, forcing your attention back on him. “Hmm?”

Seeing you cry will never get easier for him. It will always stab at him from the inside out, memories cataclysmic, and him, defenseless, useless, responsible, because—because—

“There was never any game, Caleb,” you breathe out, shakily. “You’re breaking my heart.”

Amethyst eyes lose the eternal fight, fall closed. His hands move, over your neck, hesitating there, tightening on your shoulders, bringing you close, holding you to him. Even like this. At least you’re here. Even like this.

“Say it again.”

“Say what?”

“My name. Say it again.”

He feels your ribs, their inhale, then the defeat—your head against his uniform-clad chest, your ear pressing closer, trying to listen for something that hasn’t worked right in a long time.

“Caleb. Caleb, Caleb, Caleb . . .” In the dead of night, he’s resurrected. “Come back to me,” a whisper of singular light that pierces through him, pierces through him, pierces through him.

It hurts. His love is not a good love, it is a violent one. A miserable existence, created from pain, from insatiable greed, from gut-wrenching need.

He kisses you. Grabs your face and walks you backwards to the nearest wall, his fingers buried deep in your hair, clenching, his mouth over yours, claiming, searching, your breath his own, your voice his own, your body, your body—

“You’re mine,” he rasps, drowning in you, lips trailing a path down, down, to your throat, where he sucks, where he marks. “You’ve always been, you’ll always be.”

“I don’t need you to—”

Caleb chuckles darkly. “You don’t need me? Is that what you think?” His feeling hand crawls over your flaming skin, reaching between you, under your skirt, your thigh, the inside of it, the place he’s been dreaming about, touching there. You cry out, surprised, aroused. “Tell me exactly what you don’t need, honey. Don’t leave nothing out.”

You say nothing, embarrassment flushing your pretty face in pinks. He wipes your tears very patiently, and slowly gets on one knee, then the other, until he’s kneeling in front of you, and isn’t that a sort of christening as well?

A man demolished, over six feet who-the-fuck-cares, commanding officer of nothing, exiled from his land, turned away from his home. He lost you, and then found you, and now again, this impossible story of repetition that shall never end, like the nightmares, like the torment.

He hugs your legs and rests his forehead on your soft mound. You stand very still, he doesn’t even think you’re breathing. This makes no sense to you. But to him—to him—

You’re sacred. You’re the war that’s raging on. The war he’s fighting for. The country he protects, the nation he serves.

“We’re too old for games, pip-squeak,” he ignores the ball forming in his throat, his burning eyes. “I’m tired.”

Caleb feels your digits digging into his scalp, running through his ragged hair, pulling at the ends, alleviating the pain. He swallows as to not cry out his hunger. The ache, though, it persists, and what to do with it?

It gnaws at him, little by little, every single day.

“It’s different now,” you say. “We’re different.”

He sinks his nose into your warm cunt, and inhales. Your knees buckle, but he holds you, he steadies you against the wall, he’s got you. You try to push, but he grabs your hand, interlocks your fingers with his. You try to speak, but he’s already pushing your underwear to the side, tongue daring to taste.

“Caleb.”

Moaning his name, he’s never heard of anything more beautiful. He wishes you never stop, wishes it more than anything. He almost breaks down right there. This is never going to happen again.

Is he dreaming? Is this a dream?

If it is—

“Don’t leave me,” he guides your leg over his shoulder, and doesn’t dare look up to see your face. You’re willing in his hands and you’re muttering his name. It’s more than enough. It’s everything. “My God, I’ll never forget this—”

You’re so compliant, he could do anything he wanted with you. All the fight had left your body. Was it even there to begin with? He knew you felt it too, he knew—then why condemn you both? Then why deny it?

Caleb didn’t stop believing once. There was no doubt in his mind.

“Please, I can’t,” you sigh, your words jumbled, blurring into one another, while his tongue sucks your clit into his mouth. The reaction he elicits out of you has him rock hard and leaking instantly. “Please, please, please, please. Caleb, I—oh my God—”

He works you up until the edge, feels your thighs shaking, feels the urgency of your fingers pulling. When you’re almost there, he moves away—your slick dripping, his chin glistening—and gets up, in all his height, gaze locking into yours.

You haven’t let go of his hand. He can’t feel a fucking thing.

A new wave of anger suddenly washing over him, he leans down and bites your lip. Your yelp gratifies the hankering inside him. He doesn’t mean to hurt you, he only means for you to experience an ounce of what he does every time his body denies him your delicate touch.

“I’ve thought about this for so long,” he whispers into the dark. “I never thought it possible, only a dream,” he brings you closer once again, hugging you to him as if he could somehow absorb you in on himself.

He senses the change in your demeanor immediately. This shy girl standing in front of him is nothing like the tough Hunter he witnessed infiltrating his fleet single-handedly. For you to be different with him, alone—he feels normal again, if just for a second.

“Have you . . . done this before?” You ask.

Caleb can’t help but laugh. “How could I?” He replies, incredulous. “There’s never been anyone else for me.

“You occupy every single fucking part of me, sweetheart.”

[metalmonki]

Can I request a Eddie Diaz x reader you work together and maybe make it similar to the Maddie plot where you get kidnapped and really injured but he finds you

I hope this is what you were after! I certainly enjoyed writing it. Thanks for requesting it.

Through The Dark

Edmundo 'Eddie' Diaz X Reader

4.1k word count

Summary When your kidnapped from the 118 Eddie becomes a man with a mission and nothing will get in his way.

The day started like any other at the 118.

The sun was already beating down on the asphalt as Buck and Eddie moved around the fire truck, prepping equipment with the easy rhythm of long practice. Eddie was double-checking the hoses while Buck swung open compartments, tossing a football lightly between his hands during every free second.

Across the bay, Hen and Chimney leaned into the back of the ambulance, rattling through their stock. The familiar sound of supplies clinking together echoed off the walls: saline bags, bandages, splints. The station hummed with the usual lazy energy of a morning before the inevitable chaos hit.

But there was something… off.

It was Hen who noticed first, her hand freezing over the trauma kit.

"Hey," she said, turning to Chimney with a slight frown. "You seen Y/N?"

Chimney paused mid-count, brows furrowing. "No. I figured she was already here. Y/N’s usually first in."

Eddie, overhearing, called over his shoulder, "Maybe she’s just running late?"

Buck spun the football in his hands. "Late for Y/N?" he said. "Nah, that's like... against the laws of physics."

The team exchanged glances. A strange, unspoken tension crept into the air.

Hen wiped her hands on her cargo pants and grabbed her radio. "Y/N, you copy?" she said, pressing the button. Static answered.

"Maybe she’s in the showers?" Buck offered, already moving toward the living quarters. "I'll check."

The firehouse, usually alive with movement and banter, suddenly felt too big, too quiet. As Buck jogged down the hall, a gnawing sense of worry tightened in his chest.

Something wasn't right.

And they were about to find out just how wrong things really were.

Buck came jogging back into the bay, shaking his head. "Nothing. Showers are empty. Locker room too."

Hen pulled out her phone, scrolling quickly to Y/N’s contact. "I'm calling her," she said, pressing dial. They all stood still, waiting, listening — but no ringtone echoed through the station. No hurried footsteps. No laugh.

Just silence.

Eddie wiped his hands on a rag, but it didn’t help. His palms were already clammy. His heart hammered against his ribs in a way that had nothing to do with work.

Where are you, Y/N?

He knew he shouldn’t panic — not yet. But he couldn't help it. He had been in love with her since the day she showed up at the 118, nerves visible but determination stronger. And since then, he'd hidden it. Buried it under years of jokes, teasing, pretending he was just another teammate.

Now all that restraint was crumbling. Fast.

"I'm checking Bobby’s office," Eddie muttered, already moving.

Buck and Chim followed without hesitation, Hen right behind them.

Bobby looked up from behind his desk as they pushed in. "Something wrong?" he asked, concern already flickering across his face.

"Have you heard from Y/N today?" Eddie demanded, sharper than he intended. His fists clenched at his sides.

Bobby’s frown deepened. "No. I figured she was out back, doing equipment checks. She clocked in last night for the overnight. Why?"

Eddie felt his stomach drop. She had been here. Something had happened.

Buck glanced at him, unease written all over his face. "She wouldn't just leave without telling someone."

Hen crossed her arms tightly across her chest. "This isn’t right, Bobby. Y/N would never."

Bobby grabbed his radio, his whole posture shifting from casual to urgent. "Alright. No assumptions. Full sweep of the station first. If we don't find her, we escalate."

But Eddie wasn’t waiting. His mind was already spinning worst-case scenarios, panic clawing at his chest. He barely heard Bobby giving orders, barely registered Buck calling after him.

He had to find her. Because this wasn’t just about a missing teammate.

This was about the woman he loved — and he was terrified he might already be too late.

…

The search of the station turned up nothing. No signs of Y/N — no note, no discarded gear, no hint of where she might have gone.

Bobby ordered Buck and Eddie to check her apartment while he and the others coordinated with dispatch. It wasn’t standard protocol, but none of them cared. Y/N was family — and families didn't sit around and wait.

Buck drove, Eddie riding shotgun, his knee bouncing with restless energy the entire way. Neither of them spoke much. What was there to say?

When they pulled up outside her building, Eddie was already unbuckling, practically jumping out before Buck even fully parked.

"Maybe she overslept?" Buck offered weakly, jogging to keep up as Eddie charged up the front steps.

"Y/N doesn't oversleep," Eddie snapped, pounding on her door. "Y/N’s the one who wakes us up."

He knocked again, harder. "Y/N! It's Eddie and Buck! You in there?"

No answer.

Buck tried the doorknob — locked — then looked down. No packages, no keys, no sign she'd come back after her shift.

Eddie's stomach twisted painfully.

He was about to suggest they try the manager for a key when Buck’s phone buzzed. He yanked it out of his pocket.

"It’s Hen."

Buck answered on speaker. "Hen, tell me you found something."

"I did," she said quickly, breathless. "You need to get back here. Now."

Eddie stiffened. "What is it?" His voice was rough, desperate.

"I found Y/N’s radio." Hen’s words were grim. "Stuffed behind the lockers. Like someone was trying to hide it."

Buck cursed under his breath.

Eddie felt like the floor tilted beneath him. Y/N would never ditch her radio. It was her lifeline. She treated that thing like it was a part of her body.

"I’m grabbing it now," Hen said. "Get back here. Something’s wrong."

Buck was already moving before the call disconnected, sprinting back to the truck.

Eddie stayed frozen for a second longer, staring at Y/N’s door. Something had happened. Something bad.

And he was running out of time to save her.

Buck barely waited for Eddie to slam his door shut before peeling away from the curb, tires screeching against the asphalt. Eddie gripped the dashboard, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

Neither of them spoke on the way back — didn’t need to. The air in the cab was thick with fear.

When they pulled into the station, Eddie was out before the truck fully stopped, sprinting through the bay doors.

Inside, it was a whole different scene.

Bobby was at the center of it all, his expression grim. Standing beside him, already in uniform and radiating authority, was Athena.

Eddie’s heart twisted tighter. If Bobby had called in Athena, this was no longer a missing teammate situation — this was an active investigation.

Athena spotted them and came over immediately. Her voice was calm but firm, the kind of calm that made Eddie even more nervous.

"Bobby filled me in," she said. "Hen found Y/N’s radio hidden behind the lockers. That’s enough for me to start a formal missing persons report."

"She wouldn’t leave without her radio," Eddie said hoarsely. He could hear the tremble in his own voice and hated it.

Athena’s gaze softened just slightly. "I know. Which means we treat this like foul play until we know otherwise."

Bobby stepped forward. "I’ve already locked down the station. No one in or out unless they’re part of the investigation. Dispatch is rerouting calls to the other houses."

Hen appeared beside them, holding a clear evidence bag with Y/N’s radio inside. The sight of it made Eddie’s stomach churn.

"There’s more," Hen said. "The clip on the radio is busted. Like someone ripped it off."

Athena nodded tightly. "Alright. First step — we canvas the station again, top to bottom. If Y/N left anything behind, a message, anything, we’ll find it."

"I want to help," Eddie said immediately, stepping closer, like he could physically force the universe to let him do something.

"You will," Athena promised. "But I need you sharp, Eddie. You, Buck, Hen, Chim — you know this station better than anyone. Look for anything out of place. Anything."

Eddie nodded, forcing himself to breathe.

Buck clapped a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. "We'll find her," he said under his breath. "We have to."

Eddie didn’t trust himself to answer. Because in his gut, he already knew — this wasn’t going to be simple. Someone had taken Y/N.

And he was going to tear the city apart if he had to, just to bring her home.

The station, usually filled with chatter and movement, was dead silent except for the sound of footsteps and the low crackle of Athena’s radio as she coordinated with patrol units outside.

Eddie, Buck, Hen, and Chimney split up, each taking a section of the building.

Eddie’s heart was hammering so loudly it drowned out everything else. He moved methodically — locker rooms, rec room, the kitchen. Nothing looked out of place, but he knew better than to trust appearances.

He found himself drawn back toward the bunkroom, where they all slept on long shifts.

He pushed open the door carefully.

The beds were neatly made, just like always. Sunlight filtered through the blinds in dusty beams.

Eddie scanned the room, every instinct on edge.

And then — something.

Barely visible under the edge of Y/N’s bunk, tucked up near the wall — a scrap of dark fabric.

Eddie crouched, reaching for it carefully.

It was a piece of Y/N’s uniform shirt. Torn, like it had been caught on something. And just beside it — tiny scuff marks on the floor, like there had been a struggle, quickly hidden.

"Eddie!" Buck’s voice echoed from down the hall. "You find something?"

"Yeah," Eddie called back, voice tight.

Buck came running, and Eddie held up the torn fabric.

Buck’s face went pale. "That’s hers."

Eddie nodded grimly. "Someone grabbed her here."

He could barely get the words out. Rage and fear warred in his chest, almost choking him.

Buck looked around the bunkroom, his eyes narrowing. "If there was a fight, maybe she left something else behind. A clue. Something we missed."

Eddie crouched lower, studying the baseboards, the bedframe — anything.

That’s when he saw it — carved into the underside of the wooden bed slat, just barely scratched deep enough to be visible:

5A

Eddie stared at it, his mind racing.

"What is that?" Buck asked, crouching beside him.

"Room number?" Eddie guessed. "Locker? Storage?"

They both exchanged a look — knowing time was running out.

Without waiting for backup, Eddie bolted out of the bunkroom, Buck on his heels. They had a firehouse to tear apart — and a message from Y/N to decode.

And Eddie swore to himself — he wasn’t leaving without her.

Eddie didn’t stop moving as he charged back into the main bay, "5A" burning into his brain like a brand.

"Bobby!" he called, waving the others over.

Bobby, Athena, Hen, and Chim all converged immediately, tension crackling in the air.

"We found this," Eddie said, holding up the torn piece of Y/N’s uniform. "There were scuff marks near her bunk — and this—" he pointed to Buck, who pulled up a photo on his phone of the carving under the bed slat, "5A."

Athena leaned in, frowning hard. "5A? What's that mean?"

"I don't think it’s inside the station," Eddie said, breathing hard. "Y/N had seconds — if she could scratch that in, she must have known where she was being taken."

Bobby’s face was grim. "5A... it could be a vehicle. A plate number. A storage unit. An apartment."

Athena was already moving, radioing her team. "Start pulling street cam footage near the station. Look for anything suspicious around shift change. A van, a car, anything with a 5A on the plates."

"There's a side alley," Hen said suddenly, snapping her fingers. "By the maintenance exit. Cameras don’t reach it. If someone wanted to grab her without being seen..."

"They’d use that," Eddie finished, already sprinting toward the maintenance door.

They burst outside into the narrow alley. The sun beat down on the concrete, harsh and unrelenting.

It looked empty — no obvious signs of a struggle.

But Eddie’s instincts screamed at him to look closer.

Buck scanned the ground. "Wait—" he pointed. "Tire tracks. Fresh."

Athena crouched beside them, professional but clearly rattled. "Two sets. One small, one larger — like a truck or a van."

"And here," Eddie said, pointing to the brick wall. It was faint — almost nothing — but a set of scraped marks, like someone had been dragged, boots scraping desperately for purchase.

Buck swore under his breath.

Eddie turned a slow circle, trying to breathe through the rising panic. Y/N was gone. She was outside the station — taken.

But she hadn’t gone quietly. She’d fought. Left them clues. She believed they’d find her.

Eddie clenched his fists, every muscle in his body vibrating with rage and fear.

"We get that footage," Athena said, already dialing. "We pull traffic cams. Every feed in a five-block radius. We find that van."

"And when we do," Eddie said, voice low and shaking with the force of it, "we're bringing her home."

No one argued.

Because they all knew — nothing, nothing — would stop him.

Back inside the station, Athena coordinated with officers across the city, barking orders into her radio. Bobby paced like a caged animal. Hen and Chim ran through street cam feeds on a laptop, scrubbing footage frame by frame.

Eddie stood frozen in the middle of it all, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, heart hammering so hard it hurt.

It’s not enough. We’re too slow. She’s out there. Alone.

Buck noticed, stepping up beside him. "Hey. Breathe, man. Athena’s gonna find something."

But Eddie shook his head, frustration boiling over.

"I can’t just stand here!" he snapped. His voice echoed across the bay, making everyone glance up.

Athena shot him a sharp look — but Eddie didn’t care. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, just knowing Y/N was scared, hurting, maybe worse, while he stood here doing nothing.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, pacing in a tight circle. Think, Diaz. THINK.

"5A." "5A." The number kept spinning in his head.

And then — like a fist to the gut — he remembered.

Weeks ago. Late-night conversation after a rough call. Y/N sitting across from him, laughing softly, looking tired but beautiful. Talking about how she hated her ex-boyfriend — the manipulative jerk she'd finally left for good.

"I used to live in Unit 5A of the building we were at," she had said, rolling her eyes. "Worst six months of my life."

Eddie froze, blood running cold.

"5A," he whispered.

Buck frowned. "What?"

"Her ex’s apartment," Eddie said hoarsely, turning to face him. "She lived there with him — Unit 5A."

Realization hit Buck like a freight train. "You think he took her?"

"I don’t think," Eddie growled. "I know."

Without waiting for permission, Eddie snatched the keys off the hook and headed for one of the station SUVs.

Buck was right behind him. "Let’s go."

Bobby started to call after them, but Athena caught his arm. "Let them," she said quietly. "They’re her best shot right now."

Buck drove while Eddie rattled off the address from memory — he'd made her laugh so hard that night mimicking her ex’s dramatic, whiny voice.

Now it felt like acid in his mouth.

As they weaved through traffic, Eddie’s hands shook in his lap, rage and terror fighting for dominance.

Hold on, Y/N, he thought fiercely. Hold on. I'm coming.

…

The city’s noise seemed miles away as Eddie and Buck raced toward the apartment building. Every second felt like an eternity. Eddie’s heart pounded in his chest, and his hands trembled, his thoughts drowning in one singular focus: finding Y/N.

When they reached the building, Eddie was out of the SUV before it even stopped, running toward the front door with Buck on his heels.

They didn’t knock.

Eddie slammed his fist into the doorframe of the apartment before stepping inside, his eyes scanning the dimly lit space.

The man was on the couch, his scruffy face pale with panic as he scrambled to his feet. His hand reached toward his waistband.

"Where is she?" Eddie’s voice was a growl, low and dangerous. "Tell me where she is right now."

The man froze, eyes flicking nervously between Eddie and Buck. "I—I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Eddie’s eyes narrowed, and in one fluid motion, he grabbed the man by the collar and slammed him back against the wall.

"Don’t lie to me," Eddie hissed. "She’s here. You took her."

Buck stepped up, placing a hand on Eddie’s arm. "Easy, man. Let’s just—"

"Shut up!" Eddie snapped, not looking at Buck. He wasn’t listening. He couldn’t, not with Y/N out there, alone, scared, hurt.

The man looked terrified but slowly backed up, hands raised in submission. "Okay, okay. She’s back there," he stammered, nodding toward a hallway at the back of the apartment. "I didn’t—didn’t. I just didn’t want her to leave”

Eddie didn’t wait for the rest of his confession. He was already pushing past him, running down the narrow hallway, his chest tight with fear.

When they reached the last room, the sight that met Eddie was enough to stop him cold.

Y/N was sitting against the wall, her legs drawn up to her chest. She looked so small. So fragile. Her clothes were torn and stained with blood. Her face was bruised, her lips cracked and swollen, one eye nearly swollen shut. Her arms were marked with deep red scratches and faint bruises. Every part of her seemed broken — physically, emotionally.

Eddie’s heart shattered at the sight of her, his whole body instinctively reaching for her. "Y/N," he whispered, his voice catching as he dropped to his knees in front of her. His hands gently cupped her face, trembling with barely contained fear. "Oh, god, I thought—"

Y/N’s eyes fluttered open, her gaze unfocused at first. But when she saw Eddie, a flicker of recognition passed through her, and her lips trembled as she whispered his name.

"Eddie..." She tried to speak, but her voice was weak, barely audible.

"Shh," Eddie breathed, gently pressing his forehead to hers. "You’re safe. We’re gonna get you out of here, I swear. I’m not leaving you."

She tried to push herself up, but the effort was too much. She collapsed back against the wall, exhaustion and pain too much for her to bear. "I—I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice thick with pain. "I... I couldn’t... I fought... but—"

Eddie’s eyes were fierce, his grip tightening around her hand. "You did fight, Y/N. You’re here. You’re alive. You did everything you could, okay? You hear me?"

She closed her eyes, a single tear slipping down her battered cheek as she nodded weakly.

Buck appeared behind Eddie, stepping back into the room. "Athena’s on her way."

Eddie nodded, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. He pulled Y/N into his arms, careful of her bruised body, his heart breaking all over again at how fragile she felt in his hold.

"Hold on, Y/N," he whispered into her ear, his voice barely more than a hoarse breath. "We’re getting you out of here."

She leaned into him, but the pain was obvious in the way her body trembled. "Please," she whispered, barely audible. "Don’t leave me..."

Eddie held her tighter, desperate. "Never again. I’m not going anywhere without you."

Eddie carefully lifted Y/N into his arms, cradling her close, and despite the pain she was in, she rested her head against his chest. Her breath was shallow, her body trembling from the shock, but Eddie held her like she was the most fragile thing in the world, moving quickly but gently.

Buck grabbed the man, now cowering on the floor, and yanked him up by the collar. "You’re not getting away with this," Buck growled, shoving the guy toward the front door. "The cops are on their way. They’ll deal with you."

Eddie didn’t look back. His focus was entirely on Y/N.

Her head rolled slightly to the side as she looked up at him, her gaze unfocused. "I didn’t think... I thought you wouldn’t find me... I didn’t know if I could hold on..."

"Hey," Eddie said softly, his voice breaking, a quiet desperation beneath his calm exterior. "You’re here. You’re alive. We found you." He started to walk out of the apartment, his heart a twisted knot of relief and guilt. She shouldn’t have gone through this. I should have protected her,

The moment they stepped outside, Buck turned to him. "We need to get her to the hospital, Eddie."

"I know," Eddie said, already heading for the SUV, his footsteps quick but careful as he moved through the dim hallway.

At the hospital, everything happened in a blur.

Nurses rushed to Y/N’s side, pulling her from Eddie’s arms and onto a gurney. The beeping of monitors, the urgency in their voices — all of it echoed in Eddie’s mind, muffled, as he stood frozen at the foot of the bed. His chest felt tight, like someone had shoved a weight into his lungs.

He watched them work on her — cleaning her cuts, bandaging the bruises, stabilizing her, but through it all, Eddie couldn’t shake the image of her battered, broken form sitting on the floor in that apartment. The pain she’d endured. The fear in her eyes when she first saw him.

The hospital staff finally left, giving them a moment of quiet. The room was dim, the sterile scent of antiseptic lingering in the air. Eddie took a seat beside her bed, his body tense but his hand gently brushing against her uninjured one.

"Y/N," he whispered, his voice low and rough. "I’m so sorry. I should’ve—"

She turned her head slowly, eyes fluttering open. Her face was pale, but her lips curled into a weak, painful smile. "You found me," she murmured. "I knew you would."

Eddie’s throat tightened. He hated seeing her like this, hated knowing that she’d been through hell — and he hadn’t been there. He hadn’t been able to stop it.

"I should’ve been there sooner," Eddie whispered, his hand gripping hers, as though holding on to her might make up for the time he lost.

"Hey," Y/N said softly, her voice barely audible. "You found me. That’s all that matters."

Eddie shook his head, a mixture of relief and guilt churning inside him. "It wasn’t enough, Y/N. You shouldn’t have had to go through that. I should’ve protected you—"

Y/N squeezed his hand, her grip surprisingly strong despite her injuries. "Eddie, listen to me." Her voice was still shaky, but there was a determination in it that made his heart skip a beat. "You didn’t let me down. You never could. You kept looking for me, and that’s all that matters. You’re here. You saved me."

He stared at her for a long moment, his chest tight as he tried to swallow the emotions flooding him. Saved her. That was the word she used. But she had saved herself, too — she'd fought, she'd held on.

Eddie could feel it then — the crushing weight of everything he’d been keeping inside for so long. The way his heart seemed to crack open, pulling him closer to her, making him realize just how much she meant to him. He could never put it into words, not in this moment, but he knew.

He knew that he’d been in love with her for so long, it hurt.

Y/N slowly reached up, her fingers brushing against his cheek, her touch soft but grounding. "Eddie," she whispered, her voice still hoarse. "You don’t have to say anything. I’m here. You’re here. That’s enough."

Eddie nodded, his throat tight, his emotions threatening to spill over. He wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to hold her until this whole nightmare felt like it was finally over. But instead, he simply leaned down, resting his forehead against hers, his eyes closing for a brief moment.

"I’m here," he repeated, his voice barely audible. "And I’m not going anywhere."

Hours passed, and Y/N was sedated, resting in a peaceful sleep under the watchful care of doctors and nurses. Eddie stayed by her side, not caring about the world outside the hospital room. Buck had stopped by, giving him a brief, understanding glance before leaving them alone.

But Eddie couldn’t leave. Not now. Not after everything she had been through.

And when she woke again, her hand reached out for him, her fingers trembling.

Eddie took her hand gently, pressing it to his lips. "I’m not leaving you," he promised again, and this time, he meant it in a way that felt deeper than before.

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes filled with exhaustion but trust. She smiled weakly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t want you to."

And that was enough.

[enflixx]

love left behind - nishimura riki

summary: you watch as your relationship with Ni-ki unravels before your eyes, his sudden shift in plans and growing emotional distance leaving you questioning everything you once knew about your future together. When he betrays your trust by going to a concert you both had planned to attend, you feel the weight of his neglect, his forgetfulness, his silence, and his inability to show up when you need him most. As you finally let go, you realize that love alone isn’t enough, and though it hurts, you’re left with the freedom to move forward, knowing you deserve more.

genre: angst

warnings: none!

word count: 4261

College has been good to you. Maybe even better than you ever imagined.

Your classes are definitely tough, but fulfilling. Your professors are actually the kind you want to make proud. You’ve built something here, little by little: a schedule, a rhythm, a version of yourself that feels strong and real and yours.

You’re not that scared girl who walked onto campus with shaking hands anymore. You know where the best study spots are, how to charm the barista into giving you an extra shot for free, how to smile at acquaintances you pass on the quad.

You’re proud of yourself. For surviving. For growing.

And through it all, there was always Ni-ki. The one constant in a life that kept demanding you to adapt, to change, to keep moving. The boy you loved before you even understood what real fear and real hope felt like.

You thought he was your anchor. You believed it.

For three years since junior year of high school you and Ni-ki had mapped your future out in bright, breathless colors. Graduate college together. Find jobs in the same city. Move in together. Maybe even get a dog.

You said it all so easily. So certainly. Because why wouldn’t you? You loved him and he loved you. And you were high school sweethearts.

You’re sitting across from him at your favorite cafe downtown, the smell of over sweetened coffee and old books layered thick in the air, when everything changes.

Ni-ki stirs his coffee absently, not even looking at you. Your textbook is still open in front of you, a half-highlighted sentence staring up at you, and you tap your pen against the page waiting for him to say whatever’s clearly weighing on him.

When he finally speaks, it’s too fast. Too rehearsed.

"I’m switching majors," he blurts out. "To art. Fashion design, actually."

You freeze.

For a second, you think you must’ve misheard him. You laugh a confused, fragile little sound because that’s easier than believing he just said that.

"But..." you start, blinking hard, "business was your plan."

A part of our plan.

He finally looks up at you, and there’s something almost guilty in his eyes. Something slippery you can’t quite grab onto.

"I know," he says, forcing a sheepish smile. "But... I can’t do it anymore. I’m miserable. I want to design. I want to make clothes. I’m actually happy when I’m doing that."

Happy.

The word feels like a punch. Because you can envision what happy looks like. Happy was supposed to be the two of you, side by side, building a life.

You grip your pen so tightly it nearly snaps.

"And there’s more," he says, voice lowering.

Your stomach drops.

"I want to transfer," he adds, wincing. "Maybe as soon as next semester. To a school that’s better for fashion. In Tokyo…."

You don’t say anything. You physically can’t. It’s like the air’s been sucked out of the room.

Because he isn’t just changing majors. He’s changing everything.Without you. Without asking. Without even really thinking of you.

You think back to the apartment you both toured last month "just to see." You think about the way he squeezed your hand and said, This is where we’ll end up. Just you and me.

You think about every moment you spent believing in a future that, apparently, only you were holding onto.

"I’m happy for you, I know how passionate you are about fashion." you manage, voice scraping against your throat like glass.

It’s a lie. The biggest one you’ve ever told. And somehow, he looks relieved to hear it.

You stare down at your textbook, pretending to read. Pretending you’re not watching your entire life shatter quietly between sips of coffee.

Weeks pass. Everything feels kind of... off.

Ni-ki’s attitude was lighter, that much is clear. He’s smiling more. Going out more. Spending late nights with his new classmates, disappearing into a world you’re no longer invited into.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That he deserves to be happy. That you’re strong enough to handle the shift.

But then he starts forgetting little things like the date of your big midterm you were terrified about, the lunch you planned weeks in advance, the night you called crying after a brutal day where everything seemed to fall apart at once.

You remember that night vividly.

You sat on your dorm bed, knees pulled to your chest, breathing too fast, sobbing too hard to form real words. You felt like a little kid again, lost in a world too big for you.

You texted him: yourusername [4:28]: Can you come over? Please? No explanation needed. No second message.

He said yeah.

When he walked into your room, you looked up at him with your heart already halfway in your hands, expecting—

What, exactly?

Maybe arms pulling you close? Some whispered reassurances? Even a hand in your hair, a promise in your ear that it was okay, that you were okay?

Instead, he stood there awkwardly by the door, backpack still slung over one shoulder, like he wasn’t sure if he should stay or leave.

Like your breaking wasn’t something he knew how to handle.

You cried harder. Not just from whatever had started it, but from this. From how alone you suddenly realized you were.

He just stared, helpless and frozen, shifting his weight from foot to foot until you gave up hoping, wiping your own tears away with the sleeve of your sweatshirt.

You never talked about it after that. You just tucked it away, deep down, like all the other little moments he didn’t quite show up.

A few moments later, you find yourself curled up on Charlie’s bed, arms wrapped around a pillow, picking at the threads.

She listens without interrupting the mark of someone who’s heard you cry over the same boy a hundred times before.

"I just... I don't get it, at all," you say finally, voice raw. "We had a plan. We were gonna get jobs in the city. Pay off our loans. Save up for a place. It wasn’t gonna be glamorous, but it was ours."

Charlie frowns, twisting the edge of her blanket around her finger.

"And now he's gonna be what?" you continue, a bitter laugh slipping out before you can stop it. "A struggling designer? Living on commissions and student debt? How the hell are we supposed to—"

You stop yourself.

Because you’re not supposed to be thinking like that. You’re supposed to support him. You’re supposed to believe in him.

"Maybe I’m being selfish," you say, quieter now. "Maybe I should just be happy for him."

Charlie doesn’t say anything for a moment.

Then, carefully, she says, "You always supported the two of you. You were the one who made sacrifices. You were the one who stayed on track so you could have the future you both said you wanted."

You press your face into the pillow, willing the tears back.

"And now he gets a new dream and you're just supposed to, what, pretend your life isn't tied to his?" Charlie’s voice is gentle, but there's an edge under it. "You’re not selfish. You’re allowed to want someone who chooses you, not just when it’s easy, but when it’s hard too."

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Because she’s right. Because it wasn’t just about him switching majors. It was about how easily he did it. How quickly he gave up on the future he promised you.

You stay there for a long time, listening to the muffled sounds of campus life outside the window.

Feeling, for the first time, the heavy loneliness of loving someone who might not love you in the same way anymore. That maybe love wasn’t enough.

You’re perched on the edge of a fountain with Charlie, your shopping bags scattered around you, the late sun warm on your back.

You’re laughing about some dumb couple arguing over a churro in the corner of your view when Charlie unlocks her phone to check Instagram.

She scrolls absently, thumb flicking, before pausing. And then she laughs.

"How was Ni-ki’s concert last night?" she says, showing you her screen. "That girl he went with looked so cool."

You don’t even register the words at first. Your eyes are glued to the story she’s holding up.

Ni-ki.

At the concert. The concert you and him had talked about for months, the one you both decided to skip because money was tight and it was "irresponsible" right now.

And he’s there.

Not alone. But with a girl you don’t recognize, all bleach-blonde hair and dark lipstick, wearing bold statement clothing, much different from your daily sweats and hoodie, and most importantly laughing up at him in the flashing lights.

You freeze.

The sun feels too hot. The world feels too loud. The words hit you sharper than any slap.

"What?" you say, your voice cracking halfway through and confusion clearly prominent.

Charlie’s smile fades instantly, her face folding into regret. "You… didn’t know?"

You shake your head numbly.

You didn’t know. You absolutely did not know.

Charlie fumbles to lock her phone, muttering, "Maybe it was last minute... maybe it was a group thing..." But her voice is far away now, like you’re hearing it underwater.

Your mind races, piecing things together you don’t want to understand. How he’s been disappearing for "group projects" lately.

How he mentioned offhandedly, like it was nothing that he had a lot of "cool new friends" in his fashion classes.

You stare down at your hands, clenched so tightly in your lap that your nails leave little crescent moons in your palms.

You and Ni-ki had dreamed about that concert. You'd sat on your couch last winter, bundled under a shared blanket, whispering about how "one day" you'd have enough money to go VIP.

You skipped it because you thought you were building a future. Because you thought you were sacrificing together.

But he went anyway. And he didn’t even think to tell you. Didn’t even think you deserved to know.

Charlie’s hand hovers awkwardly over your shoulder. You can tell she wants to comfort you, but there’s nothing she can say that would make this less true.

You swallow down the burn in your throat.

You refuse to cry here. Not now. Not for him.

You just plaster on the fakest smile you can manage and say, "I’m fine," even though you're pretty sure your heart is cracking in two right there on the concrete.

But the lie is easier than admitting the truth. That maybe you lost him a long time ago, and you were the only one who didn’t notice.

You wait until midnight to text him: yourusername [12:02]: Can you come over?

You tell yourself you won’t cry. You tell yourself you’ll just ask him, calm, direct, and mature.

But your hands are shaking as you set your phone down, as you sit there cross-legged by the window, staring out at nothing until you hear the knock.

When he steps inside, he looks exhausted. Not worried. Not apologetic.

Just tired like you’re another problem he has to solve before he can finally sleep.

It makes your stomach churn.

"I saw you went to the concert," you say, voice tight.

You’re standing by the window because sitting feels too vulnerable, too exposed.

Ni-ki's face immediately lights up. "Yeah, it was insane," he says, dropping onto your desk chair, running a hand through his messy hair. "We got pit tickets somehow, it was crazy! I was, like, right there. They sounded even better live, you have no idea."

He’s smiling. He’s happy.

And you just stand there, arms crossed over your chest, feeling yourself start to unravel.

"We," you say quietly. "Were supposed to go."

Ni-ki freezes, his smile faltering. You see the exact second it hits him, how casually he left you behind. How little he thought about you at all.

He shifts uncomfortably in the chair, looking down at his hands. "It was, um… it was last minute," he mumbles. "We were talking about it in class and... I don’t know. It just kind of happened."

You let out a dry, humorless laugh. Because of course. Of course it "just happened."

"Not a big deal, right?" you say bitterly. "That's what you were gonna say?"

He shrugs helplessly. "You know how much I've been wanting to see them live."

"I know," you say, voice cracking. "I wanted to see them too, and with you."

He looks up then, his face crumpling, not because he understands fully, but because he realizes he’s messed up somehow. Because he realizes, maybe for the first time, how far he’s drifted.

You stare at him, willing him to get it. To understand that it’s not about the concert. Not about the tickets or the night or the music.

It’s about how easily you slipped his mind. How easily you were replaced.

"I don't even recognize you anymore," you whisper.

Ni-ki opens his mouth like he’s going to defend himself. You can almost hear the words coming: I'm just busy, I'm figuring myself out, you should be happy for me—

But he doesn’t say anything. He just sits there, hands useless in his lap, staring at you like he’s looking at someone he used to know.

And maybe that’s when you know. Maybe you’ve known for a long time but you were just too scared to say it out loud.

That he’s already left you behind. That somewhere between who you were and who he’s becoming, he forgot how to love you.

The next few days are a blur.

Texts turn colder. Calls go unanswered longer.

You walk through campus feeling like a ghost, like the world is moving at full speed while you're stuck in place. Everyone else is laughing, talking, living their college lives. But you feel like you're trapped in some empty hallway, chasing after something that isn't even there anymore.

You think about the boy in high school who used to leave tiny, stupid notes that made you smile even when you were stressed.

“Good luck on your test!” “Can’t wait to see you tonight. :) Love, Ni-ki”

The thought of those notes feels like a different life now. And you realize, with a sharp, bitter twist in your chest, that he would never leave one for you now. Not if his life depended on it.

You remember staying up late together on the phone, every night for hours on end, talking about everything and nothing. His voice would be soft in your ear, and you’d both laugh over the most insignificant things, until it was past 2 AM, and neither of you cared about the time.

“You still awake?” he’d text at 1:30, and you’d stay up, waiting for that call, just to hear his voice.

You used to say, We’re never gonna get bored of each other. But now, the calls are cut short.

Now, you’re lucky if you get ten minutes of half-hearted conversation before he says, Alright, gotta go. We’ll talk later.

You hate how he says that now. Like it’s just a chore, something to tick off his list.

You remember how he used to say,” Good night, baby” the words were always gentle, always meaning something.

Now it’s just a “Good night” followed by an unread text for hours. You can't remember the last time you felt like he was actually there. And it eats at you.

You think about how he used to look at you like you were the only thing that made sense. Like the whole world could fall apart, but he’d be fine, as long as you were by his side.

He’d pull you close and smile, like the universe was perfect in that moment, just the two of you against everything else.

But now? Now, he looks at you like you’re a problem he’s tired of solving. Like he’s already moved on, but you’re still stuck holding on to the ghost of what you used to be.

And you can’t decide which hurts worse, the fact that he’s gone or the fact that you’re still here, pretending like things are fine, pretending like you don’t know exactly what’s happening.

You meet him after classes, like you used to.

His car is parked in the same spot by the edge of campus, the same car where you spent countless hours in high school talking about everything or even just making out. The sound of your laughter, the music playing in the background, the comfort of knowing he was there, those memories linger like shadows in the car, and for a second, you almost believe it’s all still there. That maybe you can pick up where you left off.

But then you climb into the passenger seat, and everything feels different. You both sit in silence for a few minutes, not quite looking at each other, like neither of you knows how to begin.

You trace the outline of your seatbelt nervously, your fingers fidgeting. The familiar scent of his coconut sex wax fills the car and something else, something colder now, a subtle shift in the air. He looks at you, and for the first time in what feels like forever, his eyes aren’t full of warmth.

"So…" he says, his voice hoarse, as if he’s been trying to find the right words for too long. You wait, feeling that all-too-familiar heaviness in your chest.

Maybe this is it. Maybe he’ll apologize, tell you he’s sorry, that things can go back to the way they were. Or maybe, just maybe, a memory will come rushing back to you both, some moment that will make you remember why you stayed so long, why you fought so hard to make it work.

But there’s nothing. Just silence.

You glance at him, really look at him, the way you haven’t in what feels like ages. You see the tiredness in his eyes, the weariness in his posture, and it makes you realize something.

This isn’t just about what he’s done. This is about the person he’s become, the person you’ve drifted so far from, and the one you don’t think you can reach anymore.

"I don’t think we’re… us anymore," you say finally, voice shaking as you swallow the lump in your throat.

His face crumples, and you almost feel like you’ve been hit. But it’s not a surprise. You knew it would hurt, but you never imagined it would hurt this much.

He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, probably anything to fix it, but you know him. You know how badly he wants to just make it better, even if it’s too late.

You know he loves you. You know he does. And you do too.

But sometimes, love just isn’t enough. And you’re not the same person you were when you started this. You can’t keep pretending that you are.

He nods slowly, as if he’s finally accepted the inevitable. The silence between you stretches, heavier than any words.

You turn to face him, and without thinking, you reach for him, your arms wrapping around him for one last time. It’s a hug that feels like an apology but also, a goodbye.

You bury your face in his shoulder, feeling the warmth of him, the familiarity of his embrace, and for a moment, you let yourself feel everything that’s slipping through your fingers.

When you pull away, the space between you feels vast. You can feel it in your bones. Neither of you says goodbye.

You open the door, and as you step out of the car, you glance back at him one last time. The way his eyes follow you, the way he stays still, as if he’s waiting for something, for you to stay, for you to turn around.

But you don’t.

You just leave. Because staying would hurt worse.

That night, you sit on your bed, the dim light of your desk lamp casting long shadows across the room. The emptiness in your chest doesn’t feel like what you expected. You thought there’d be more pain, more longing, more regret. But instead, there’s a strange stillness. It’s quiet in a way that feels unfamiliar and unsettling, yet somehow, there’s a kind of peace to it.

You stare at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the plaster, wishing they could give you answers. Should you feel more broken? Should you be drowning in the aftermath of everything?

You don’t know. You can’t decide. It’s like trying to hold water in your hands where everything slips through your fingers no matter how hard you try to make sense of it.

But then, in the quiet of your room, you realize something. It’s not that you don’t care, because you do. You care more than you’ve ever cared for anyone. You love him, so much that you thought you could give up everything, your dreams, your future. just to stay in a love that felt like it was built to last. You used to believe that no matter what, you and Ni-ki would figure it out. You'd grow together. You’d be unstoppable.

But now, as you lay there alone, the weight of it all is too heavy, too suffocating. And the truth begins to settle in, like a stone in your gut: You didn’t just lose him. You lost the version of yourself you thought you could have been with him. The version who believed in the plan you suffered together, the one where everything would work out. The future you both had imagined, the one that was so carefully laid out, that version of you feels like a different person now. Like she didn’t even exist.

And yet, despite everything, you feel... free.

Sad? Yes. Grieving? Oh absolutely. But free.

You never imagined you’d feel that way after the end of a three-year long relationship. After all, wasn’t the point of it all to be together forever? Wasn’t the goal to build a life? And yet, the thought of a future without him doesn’t feel like an unbearable weight.

It doesn’t make sense. You never wanted this. But here you are, sitting on the bed that used to feel so full when he’d sit next to you, listening to music together, talking about your futures. Futures you no longer share.

You think about everything that’s happened, the missed calls, the forgotten anniversary, the way he couldn’t even comfort you when you needed him most. The way he seemed to slip further and further away, the more you tried to hold on. The moments when you should have been the most important person in his life... but instead, you were just another problem he couldn’t solve. Another thing he didn’t have the energy to put in the effort for.

You think about the concert. You think about the girl. You think about how easy it was for him to leave you out of something that meant so much to you.

Not only the concert, but the whole pattern. The forgetting. The replacement. The slow deterioration of what you both once had. It was never just about one thing, one moment. It was everything. All the things he took for granted, all the moments when he was emotionally absent, when he didn’t show up for you because he was too busy living his new life. His new, spontaneous life that didn’t include you.

And as you let the weight of that wash over you, you finally understand that maybe, just maybe, you were always allowed to want more. More than someone who forgets how to love you when it matters most. More than someone who can’t even recognize when you’re drowning. You don’t have to settle for crumbs of affection when you deserve the full meal. You don’t have to spend your life waiting for someone to come back to you when you’ve already given them so many chances.

You deserve someone who sees you, who remembers you, who loves you even when things are hard. You deserve someone who wants to grow with you, not someone who leaves you behind when they find something else that excites them more.

Love was never a guarantee. You thought it was. You thought it was all laid out for you, that you’d grow old together, that every choice you made would intertwine with his. But the truth is, love is fragile. It’s not something you can take for granted. It’s something you have to show up for. Every day. And sometimes, when someone stops showing up, when they stop caring, when they stop seeing you. Maybe it’s time to let go.

You know now that growing together isn’t the same as just growing.

You thought you were growing together, that your lives would follow the same path. But that’s not what happened. He changed. You changed. The version of him that you loved, the one who would talk about the future, the one who would share your dreams is gone. And the version of you that he once made feel so loved? She’s also fading. And the person you are now is stronger, wiser, and maybe even a little bit sadder. But she’s also free.

You’re allowed to want more. And maybe that’s the hardest thing to accept of all.

note: i think you could tell this was very self indulged... this is based off of my current boyfriend (minus the break up,) so any advice to maybe avoid this ending or just accept it is honestly welcomed!

[b1rd1e]

could anybody help me slowly be able to afford a bed Lolllll my joints hurt sleeping on the floor 💗💗💗💗💗💗 thank u So much i Love u

[lilyharvord]

The fantasy fiction trope of the chosen one being raised to die at just the right time is just so biblically horrific and disgusting, it literally makes me foam at the mouth over it. The fact that there are numerous instances where they should die, but there is always something in the universe that saves them; leaving them thinking that maybe they are either incredibly skilled at survival or just lucky, only to find out that it was never them?? They were being saved just to die when they have to? As seen fit by some higher power????? Furthermore, it's extra spicy if that chosen one was a reluctant hero who only realizes it at the end, right before they have to die... and they make the choice to go through with it anyway???? When they ultimately have something to die for now (read found family who tries to stop them and/or turns from fighting the big bad to fighting the fucking universe to save them)????? Geewhiz what a fucking TROPE.

[wizardofarles]

Survivor (Victim)

Did I survive? I breathe, I think,

but am I alive?

I did not overcome—I failed,

gave in, gave up.

I never fought, and never won.

I slayed no demons—I couldn’t

face them. I left

the door wide open, let them in, let them

change me, erase

me,

bury me cold,

six feet under their monstrous weight,

I laid down and was grateful

for the rest and how they allowed me to

hide. I closed my eyes,

but my mouth like a wound remains

open, waiting

for the right moment—for the right

words—to scream, waiting

for caring hands

to claw through the earth and tear my body

free—

waiting always, always choking

on the dirt that fills my lungs,

as countless bright full summers

pass above. Is this breathing?

Is this living? I fear I’m just a ghost,

a whisper

of what could have been, what once was

—tethered to this place

by a thin thread—

You have not found my corpse.

[thenwethrowitonthefire]

Shout-out to everyone who survived a "fun" easter with the family

[gatheryepens]

So I’m like 99.1% going to quit my job

[ohabeeeeeee]

.

[nochepsicodelica]

Bear Boyfriend Toji returns. ʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっ <- Hell yeah, that's the clingy thing <3

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ᕦʕ •`ᴥ•´ʔᕤ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ Don't let him catch you wearing his clothes, unless you want him relentlessly tailing you for the rest of the day until you both go to sleep. It's one thing to put his shirt on to go to bed, but it's a whole other thing to wear it in broad daylight, while cleaning the house, cooking, folding and putting away your laundry, etc. He will follow you and try to corner you as you make your way around, trying to get all these things finished. You have to be very strong-willed in order to duck under his arms and escape him when he tries to seduce you by caging you against the wall. It doesn't deter him when you leave him standing there with his hands still planted on the wall. He laughs it off, mutters something under his breath about you being a tease and keeps chasing you, his prize.

Cooking is the hardest thing to do in his clothes. You're literally working with fire, sharp knives, and multitasking it up, while he's clinging to you and whispering in your ear all the filthy things he wants to do to you while you wear his shirt. You're crying your eyes out while you cut an onion and when you ask him to watch the pot, he Toji Taxes you. Says, "Yeah, sure, I'll stir... For two kisses and a squeeze." Unbelievable, but you need that help, so with a much called for roll of your stinging, bleary eyes, you make your way to him and let him take what he wants in exchange for his assistance. After one very long squeeze to your boob over his shirt and two kisses, he happily has a wooden spoon in his hand. Indulging him in his demands only fueled his desire to get you back in his grasp. It's that damn shirt, it fits like a short dress on you. Another thing he loves is that if you reach high enough for something, he gets a peek at the mere pair of underwear you're sporting under it.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ᕦʕ •`ᴥ•´ʔᕤ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ When it rains, good luck getting this bear of a man off of/away from you. It's hard enough to get out of bed on a daily basis because of how he constantly drags you back until he's ready to get out of bed, but rainy days are something else entirely. It's cold, the sky is gloomy, everything is wet, and worst of all... the chances of getting wet socks are much, much higher. It's not his favorite, but the one thing that makes it all better is you, so his clinginess is on another level—it's really like he's being powered by the storm.

He loves when your schedules align during this kind of weather. Neither of you has to leave the house for work, so there are no alarms set and you both wake up at your own times. Days like this transition from being wrapped up in each other until your stomachs start growling, to putting on big sweaters that smell like him, so that you can run to the car together through the heavy rain, to get something to eat. Once you return, you make that same run through the rain to get back to your home and you both head straight for the bedroom, where you are once again made his prisoner and caged in his arms for the duration of your afternoon nap.

He doesn't want to leave the bed anymore, and that extends to him not wanting you to leave either, even when you say you have to pee. "Hold it, mama. We're still sleeping." "I've been holding it for half an hour." "Shh... If you last the whole hour, we'll go make that coffee you were chirping about, earlier." He definitely chides you when you can't fall asleep later at night, but is more than ready to help you in any way that expedites the process.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ᕦʕ •`ᴥ•´ʔᕤ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ With how long you've been together, it's to be expected that you feel safe around Toji, but there are just moments where he stands back and thinks about the things you do that demonstrate how emotionally and physically comfortable you are with him. He's glad that you see him as your confidant and that you don't feel the need to dial down your feelings, just so that he can easily digest what is going on with you. He's a strong man, he can handle your tears of varying emotions, so, when you come home from a terrible day at work or you feel like you are losing your mind, because nothing is going right, he openly invites you to plop yourself on him and just lie there until you're ready to talk out what has you feeling the way you do. You don't have to say anything until you are ready, but if his presence comforts you and helps you relax a little more, he prefers that you seek him out for solace.

The physical aspect of feeling safe around him is shown in many ways, like when you fall asleep on him or even just fall asleep around him. You trust that he will look out for you during these moments of vulnerability and he does. He can easily tell when a nightmare is preventing you from getting good sleep and he does not wait for you to wake up in tears to comfort you, because what is being abruptly woken up, to enduring uncontrollable fear your mind creates?

When you go out together, even just being subtly maneuvered so that you are walking on the inside of the sidewalk, makes you feel protected. You already get automatic scary bear privilege with him, so you rarely feel like you are endangered by others, but the little things he does are very much considered and appreciated, too. Like, when you're walking through a large crowd and he holds your hand tight or he hooks his arm around your waist and pulls you into his side, so that you don't get lost. Or when he switches places with you and becomes a barrier between you and the group of sketchy looking men walking by.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ᕦʕ •`ᴥ•´ʔᕤ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ This bear loves when you fly at him like a dart and tackle him or at least try to tackle him after a long day of not seeing each other. Sometimes he'll stumble back on purpose just to make you laugh when he says something along the lines of "woah there, pretty girl. We almost went through the wall." It's gotten to be a routine for whenever you come home from work before him. As soon as he shuts the door, he's silently and slowly turning around, throwing a smirk at you in anticipation of you jumping on him. Sometimes, he crouches down slightly and scoops you up before you even have the chance to try and knock him over. The way you laugh as he carries you back to where you were lying on the couch, while he rapid fires kisses onto your face, is everything. This is definitely one of his favorite parts about coming home to you.

Before anything, you read Toji's body language, because sometimes there are days that don't call for this kind of silliness. Like when the door shuts, signaling that he's finally home, but he lets out a tired, heavy sigh. You greet him in a much calmer manner, simply walking up to him and asking him how his day went and if he wants to freshen up before he eats dinner—questions of that sort—while still being mindful of not overwhelming him with too many of them. It's very much about reading his mood, but also attempting to lift it by doing things like reminding him that he's about to eat one of his favorite meals, even when you know he knows, because the entire house is flooded with the aroma, or telling him about a new little food spot that you saw on your way home from work and suggesting you go try it together sometime.

Most of the time, you're able to lighten up his mood, and if it's not before you go to the bedroom, it's while you're lying in bed together, getting ready to go to sleep. Quiet investigative murmurs reach his ears, while his head rests on your chest. You play with his hair to ensure that he feels calm and secure enough to talk this out with you, and he usually does cave and spills what's on his mind. It's mainly tiredness and work being a stressful hassle at times, inevitably preventing him from getting home to you when he's supposed to. He feels better once he gets it all off his chest and sleeps like a cub, attached to you, as always.

NSFW Below

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ᕦʕ •`ᴥ•´ʔᕤ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ Dirty bear, dirty bear, dirty bear! He has more wet dreams about you than he would ever admit. It makes him feel ridiculous, given the consistency and then some, of the amount of times you and him have sex in a week. His mind is so greedy, already cluttered with images and moments with you, yet it continues to create more scenarios while he sleeps, giving him these "humbling experiences". Sometimes he has to get up in the middle of night—under the guise of going to use the bathroom—to change his boxers, because he ruined them with an involuntary overflow of cum and he needs to hide the evidence. It's something he gets all bashful and "c'mon, Toji..." about, while he's cleaning himself up, but when he catches you in the middle of experiencing a wet dream, he thinks it's the hottest thing ever. For a few seconds, it's just you grinding against the covers, quietly mumbling his name, before you still, again. And oh, he's a hypocrite. He will tease the living hell out of you about it when you wake up, his sleep ridden voice bombarding you with questions like... "How'd you sleep?" "Dream anything interesting?" "Who was there?" "What did I do that had you all riled up?" "Was dream me realistic enough to make you cum?"

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ᕦʕ •`ᴥ•´ʔᕤ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ This enormous, "intimidating man"—in the words of others—does not mind at all if you wake him up in the middle of the night because you need him. Especially, if you wake him up by pressing soft, butterfly kisses to his lips. He's willing to do anything you ask of him if that's how you ask for it. All it takes is a sultry, whispered "Please," from you and he's sitting up, getting ready to fulfill your needs. He doesn't even need to ask you what you need, the way you flip over to lay on your stomach and raise your oversized shirt over your hips, revealing your panties to him, tells him everything.

Toji is sure that this is just going to lull both of you back to sleep, but he does it for your sake. He goes for the usual position that these spontaneous sparks of nightly desire call for—prone bone. Even during the early hours of morning, with both of you still half asleep, the act keeps its intimacy. His face is pressed close to the side of yours, his nose brushing your cheek as sloppy, lazy kisses meet your skin. His hands go to the backs of yours, interlacing his fingers with yours on your pillow.

Short, languid rolls of his hips against you are what you receive, and it's enough, because your body is so sensitive after having just woken up, that it tricks you into feeling like he's giving you way more. It's all quiet, shuddered breathing, until you release the cutest little whimpers and cries into your pillow, once you cum. The way your cunt clenches and spasms around his cock has him releasing deep groans into your ear, as he nears his own climax. Slightly more punctuated thrusts that jolt you into the mattress and heavier breaths, are followed by thick spurts of cum that brim your walls. For a second or two, you feel like he might break your fingers from how hard he's squeezing them, but the pain vanishes, and you're distracted from the fact that it was ever there when his arms envelop you and his lips smear wet kisses over the side of your face, again. A quiet check in is conducted, and when you confirm that you're fine and you feel good, he fully relaxes and just slumps on you. You both end up falling back asleep just like that.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ᕦʕ •`ᴥ•´ʔᕤ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ He loves having hush hush sex at least once a week. He takes you out to places where there are lots of people—a restaurant, for example—he'll move his chair so that he's sitting beside you, and he'll start touching you under the table. He relishes in the fluctuation of your composure, the way you nibble on your lip while nervously looking around, how your eyes shut tightly just before you shudder out a sigh and let your head hang, your knuckles protruding as much as they can without tearing through your skin.

The sight of you quickly spending all your grounding techniques, goes straight to his dick, and it's not long before things are moved to the bathroom. He won't do the whole, i'll meet you in the bathroom in five minutes, scene. He really doesn't care who sees you two, so he's dragging you along with him to the men's bathroom, hand in hand. He'll check to see if it's all clear, and if it is, he'll pull you into the bathroom and lock the door, immediately pinning you to the door. You're lured into the sloppiest make out session ever. While one hand is bunching up your dress, the other is going under it to feel up your chest and the rest of your torso. Then the bumping against the door begins and your moans are being shushed by him. "Your pretty moans are for me, right?" "Mhm." "Keep it that way. No louder than this, or i'll stuff my fingers in your mouth so no one gets to hear them."

Of course the people outside know what you did. It's a couple coming out of the men's bathroom together, and the woman is clinging to her man, while she walks back to her table with very obviously trembling legs. Once Toji helps you get back into your seat, he digs into his lukewarm meal, as if nothing ever happened. He smiles all lovingly as you pick up your fork with a shaky hand and start eating as well.

[hivemuthur]

The Ugly Thing

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! smut, love confessions, D/S dynamics (if you squint or if you know what I'm talking about), pining, dom!viktor (but also not, if you squint, something something), Viktor-centric, AU college/university + modern era (again, you have to do some squinting for it to be relevant)

word count: 4,9K

summary: Yet another self-indulgent one-shot of Viktor and Reader. It's just an exploration. I want to believe this is erotica, but you tell me. Subspace/Domspace if you squint. Just squint, alright?

Cross-posted on AO3

—

Viktor was, at the very least, difficult. That was what he had called himself, and he relished the label, as it allowed him to be all things at once—sweet, shy, bold, cruel, smart, oblivious, observant. He walked through life making observations and turning his conclusions into actions, placing people exactly where he needed them, ensuring they couldn’t place him somewhere he didn’t want to be.

His relationships were fleeting moments of leniency—sometimes even kindness—offered only when he felt inclined. Occasionally, the kindness transpired twice, or three times, but never more, as the risk of forming a one- or double-sided attachment was undesirable. Viktor’s desires lay elsewhere, and in his pursuits, he indulged the weakness of the flesh while keeping his ultimate goal—recognition of his brilliant mind—crystal clear.

Always polite, so that nothing could hurt him. His armour of politeness and astute behaviour shielded him from the lingering hands that sought to cradle him through the night, from the tender offerings of morning coffee, and from the quiet intimacy of shared silences. Viktor didn’t crave these things. He made sure his politeness was cold, detached, and practised—a skill perfected to keep others at bay. There was no warmth in it, no invitation to linger.

From time to time, he indulged in fleeting encounters, moments where he allowed himself to surrender to the pull of human connection—physical, but never emotional. Emotional, but not lasting. It was a necessary recharge, a way to quiet the body’s demands, but he was always one step ahead. He ensured his partners understood that whatever fragile universe they built together in the night would dissolve with the first light of morning, leaving no trace beyond the cooling embers of his skin.

All that was left was being polite—a polite smile in the hallway, a pencil lent during a lecture, an elevator held for his perishable lover rushing to class. Their names never forgotten, but their warmth never wanted again.

Until you. Until you invaded his orbit and refused to be erased. Until you befriended Jayce, making it easy to keep meeting him, keep looking at him, keep exchanging amusements and something more than politeness—exchanging kindness. Until it turned out you were smart and driven and managed to scare him once or twice by pinning him with your joke.

Until he had slept with you, giving you his mediocre self—not the calculated, observant one, but the needy, touch-starved, pathetic one that moaned your name and groped you with begging hands. All during a completely unorchestrated evening in your dorm room, still half-clothed, just lustful and impatient. Just really fucking hungry in your mutual understanding, though you understood absolutely nothing. Oblivious to the ugly thing in him. Oblivious to the concept of boundaries. Oblivious to the need to protect yourself from prying eyes that might see the truth of what they were.

And the way you stared at him afterwards, gave your body a long stretch, and your limbs flopped back onto the mattress. And the way you said, “It’s ok if you want to go,” an understanding smile cracking across your face—yet you understood absolutely, utterly nothing. A way out he craved, but he wanted to carve it out for himself with his politeness, not with this—this knowing, wise look in your eyes that came from nowhere, because you knew nothing. He almost wanted to stay, just to spite you, but found himself only nodding, scrambling to his feet to fetch his brace and cane, and bidding you goodnight with a polite nod.

And the way you remained friendly. Not friendly—the way you two remained friends. The long nights spent in study groups, pulling straws to determine who was doomed to coffee duty, your head slumped in sleep on Jayce’s shoulder, his head resting on Mel’s. Your bare, cold feet stretched out, toes brushing against Viktor’s thigh, sending ice through his veins—and the way he didn’t mind. The way he contemplated cradling your feet in his palm, warming them against his better judgement.

The way your touch lingered on his arm when you grabbed him in the corridor to show him something funny on your phone. And the way the thing on your phone actually was funny—a picture of Jayce passed out in the library under a mountain of plastic cups balanced on his shoulders. The way his own laugh startled him, made his chest shake and his face lean in close to yours.

The way you would fall asleep in the common room, watching old horror films, your throat vulnerably exposed on his lap. And he just wanted to grab it, squeeze it tight, choke the confession out of you—that you lingered because you wanted more, because this friendship was unthinkable.

The way you got upset when he was mean, and the way he went out of his way to apologise with a childish, shit-eating grin. His arms reaching out for you, your palm pressing his face away in that same friendly gesture.

When he flushed his system with alcohol, all he could think about was fucking you senseless. And when your gaze lingered on him, burning all the way down into his ugly thing, you would ask what was on his mind, and he would say, “Physics.” And you would laugh his lie out.

The way, once, he gave you a lingering kiss on your doorstep and stopped himself. But seeing the question poised on the tip of your tongue, he sunk back in, turning the kiss into a sloppy, drunken mess, so you would be the one to push him away. A gentle pat on the shoulder, sending him off with the unspoken instruction to come back sober. And how he never came back for that.

All of this made him so fucking angry. His carefully mended self, constructed from sweetness, shyness, boldness, cruelty, wisdom, and oblivion, was crumbling under your pensive eyes—and the way you floated atop the pissed-off ocean of his mind.

And oh, he loathed himself on that evening, loathed the way his feet carried him to your room because he was feeling vaguely sad and distracted. He loathed his feet for doing so, loathed his finger for pressing the elevator button, loathed his knuckles for placing a quiet knock on your door. It was all so gross, so out of character, and he loathed it all.

And there you were, opening the door, your face full of dinner, hair messy, cheeks puffed out as you curled them into a closed-mouth grin and gave him a wave to come inside. A quiet “hi,” followed by a chuckle as you tried to swallow before chewing—and a cough when the gulp was too massive for your throat.

“Are you busy?” Viktor found himself blurting out, scanning the room. Your flatmate was gone for the weekend—her bed made, her shoes and coat missing. Observed, concluded. His eyes flicked over to the other bed: messy but cozy, notes scattered across it, a steaming cup on the bedside table, and a laptop propped in the leg area playing background noise. Studying, of course.

“I am always busy,” you grinned at him, your teeth bare and beautiful like the rest of you, as you dropped your dishes into the sink and put the kettle on. “Watching Dexter and studying. Do you want tea?”

“Maybe,” Viktor mused, biting his lip. He negotiated silently with himself, wondering what it was he hoped to find in this room that might sweeten his sour mood—and why his mood was sour in the first place. His hand wobbled on his cane, the traitorous thing, and he leaned against the doorframe to deflect, refusing to decide whether to step fully in or out.

“Okay, what’s gotten into you today?” you huffed, picking a mug you deemed suitable for him. Good Vibes Only, with a middle finger printed on the bottom of it, seemed fitting.

“Meaning?” Viktor cocked an innocent eyebrow, feeling the burn of your inquisitive gaze. Oh, to yank that lovely head by the neck and shove it between his legs, to ease the torment in his mind.

“This is the third time you’ve bothered me today. It’s the weekend. You usually work on the weekends. You’re being vague but resistant to probing. Did something happen?” The countdown of his sins, and it was only the count of one day. Nothing had happened, and that was the issue.

“I suppose I’m feeling… down?” He shrugged, the movement worn down, defeated. His brain ached, and he felt lonely. It had started to feel indecent to pursue others—and for that, you deserved a whack as well.

“Do you need a hug?” A mocking snort reached his ears. A long pause as the scales tipped between a ‘no’ and a ‘yes.’

“Yes.”

Another long pause, as you blinked and scanned him for any signs of a sham, your expression still uncertain. You had to make sure again. “Do you need a hug now?”

“No, in fifteen fucking minutes.” His undignified huff earned him a pair of raised eyebrows from you, and a remark already rolling off your tongue—but he cut it short. “Yes, now. Come here.” His head hung low, and only his hand made a beckoning gesture.

You smiled, disarmed by the black cat of Viktor, finally trying to scramble into your lap after months of teasing and playing around—head bumping and blinking at each other from afar. You walked up to him, your hands hesitant, as if this open display of need was unthinkable.

Before you could settle, Viktor snaked himself around you, his cane propped by the door, his frame bent and draped over you, leaning his body weight forward. It was the grabbiest, the neediest hug he had ever given—or that anyone had let him have. He pressed his face into the crook of your neck, smashing his nose against your skin, and inhaled you deeply, through both mouth and nose.

His palms, open and wide, raked as much of your body in one go as they could. They slipped under your clothes, seeking the taut skin stretched across your back and shoulders. He wanted to go lower but could only squeeze.

You weren’t hugging him; he was hugging you. Caging you in his grip, controlling when the hug would end—and as far as he was concerned, not ever. You stilled under his touch, your hands resting obediently on his chest as he rubbed his face on yours, purring like a cat.

“Viktor?” Your voice was barely a whisper, bouncing off his mouth, an inch away from yours. “Would you like me to kiss you?” He sang his swan song in that moment, almost asking permission, granting you the illusion of control, the illusion of choice—when in truth, it was him silently begging for the kiss to happen.

“Would you like to kiss me?” Of course. A deflection. Nothing he wasn’t prepared for.

“I asked you first.” A cruel blow, almost childish. He pulled his face back a few inches to watch you wrestle with the indignity of the situation. The whine you tried to suppress at the loss of contact didn’t go unnoticed, and the snake in Viktor’s belly coiled its head up, smug and poised.

But then you did the thing he didn’t expect—twisting the serpent’s head off and tossing it aside with quiet defiance. You moved closer, nudging his chin with your cheek, your wide eyes pleading for his plea. His resolve shattered instantly.

He held you in place, his lips hovering just above yours. His whisper was longing, desperate. “Can I kiss you?”

A silent ‘yes.’ He only knew it was a ‘yes’ because he felt the movement of your lips on his—but he didn’t let you finish. He sank into your mouth with a disturbing, possessive urgency, pressing his tongue inside, licking your beautiful teeth, biting your beautiful skin.

He kept you locked in, pressing you down under the weight of his kiss. His mouth drooled into yours obscenely as he breathed heavily through his nose. It was the ugliest kiss he had ever given anyone—the ugliest anyone had ever taken from him. And yet, it was taken with such grace, such gratitude, that he wanted to give you everything else.

With inhuman strength, he pulled you both apart and placed his thumb on your lower lip, still glistening with his saliva. He traced it lazily, transfixed by the shimmering reflections on your skin. His heart swelled as he observed the redness blooming around the spots he had bitten. He wanted you bruised by his love—for everyone to see.

“What are you doing tonight?” Another plea, another promise, fell between you. Viktor cursed himself for being so open, so exposed. Because even though you knew nothing, you would understand this question.

“Watching Dexter and studying,” you said in an absent voice, your eyes following his, following the path of his thumb. The silence stretched between you, taut, until you felt the need to fill it. “Do you want to watch Dexter and study with me?”

“No.” The word escaped him in a croak, sung low and jagged, as if he had only just realised this wasn’t what he wanted at all. “Are you wet?” was all he wanted to know.

“What?” The word escaped you, surprised, almost appalled. Viktor braced himself for you to pull away, so he tightened his grip—but you didn’t. You just stared at him with those beautiful eyes on your beautiful face, your pupils dilating at the vulgar perversion of his question.

“I think you heard me. Are you wet right now?” He leaned in to whisper the filth into your ear, feeling his snake grow out a new head at the full-body shudder that went through you.

“What if I said no?” you asked shyly, your eyelashes brushing against his cheek.

“I would demand proof,” he murmured, holding the sides of your face as he poured his poison straight into your ear, his voice so quiet and rude that your eyes fluttered closed.

“What if I said yes?” You found some bravery in yourself, tracing your fingers along Viktor’s neck, just under the line of his hair. You smiled at the feeling of goosebumps rising under your fingertips. He couldn’t have this, of course.

“I would demand proof regardless,” he responded, his lips grazing the shell of your ear before licking it, slow and deliberate. He craned his head back to look at you. You appeared frightened and excited all at once, and if Viktor had no restraint, he would have run his fingers through your hair to soothe you. Instead, he placed a flat palm on your stomach, fingers pointing down, waiting for your permission.

He received a timid nod, but it wasn’t enough.

“Use your words.”

“You can check.” You closed your eyes and exhaled, as though allowing yourself to be judged for your crime. And as the crime was that of lust, Viktor, somewhere deep down, knew he didn’t really need proof, and that your punishment would be light. Because he didn’t truly want to punish you. He wanted to love you in an ugly way.

He slid his hand down, down beyond the waistband of your pants, down your lower belly straight to your womb, palming your cunt through the underwear and gasped, “Oh lásko, look at you.” His chest fluttered at the first touch, with joy and accomplishment, but also because he was right, when he slid the fabric to the side and ran his finger through your slit. Warmth dripped onto his fingertips, and he felt himself grow hard beneath the restraint of his own clothes.

“Do you really like me this much?” he cooed, so pleased that just one ugly kiss had managed to drench your knickers and make you feel so ashamed you nearly flinched away.

“Viktor—” You looked at the floor, your brows furrowed, your face burning from being so exposed, so naked. And you looked so, so beautiful.

“I am not mocking you,” he murmured, placing a reassuring hand on your cheek and caressing it gently. It was almost a praise, though he dared not say it yet. “What makes you want a cripple so much? Is it your heart that longs for me, your mind that thinks you can change me, or just your body?” he mused, revealing too much merely by asking.

You looked almost offended by how blunt he was about knowing what you wanted, just not knowing why. His fingers now parting you, playing at your entrance, teased you but you wouldn’t flinch. You just searched his face hesitantly and as Viktor grew tired of waiting, he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them, mercilessly bumping your wall, forcing you to flinch. He really wanted to see your eyes roll back into your skull, and he really wanted to hear his name distorted by a breathy moan.

“Which… would be the worst?” Your breath fanned his face as you steadied yourself on his shoulders. Truly, you weren’t ready for any of the options to be soured.

Viktor thought for a moment, his fingers slowly retreating, almost absent-mindedly. When his answer was found, he pushed back in, smiling innocently, his face moving close to yours. “The first. The second,” he mused, another slow, unbearably so, thrust. “I could fuck out of you. The third, well…” A gentle kiss on your lips, almost loving. “I see no fault in the third.”

“Of course, you don’t,” you scoffed, your grip on his shoulders tightening with each minute. “And what brings you back to me over, and ah,” a gasp escaped your mouth when Viktor brushed his thumb over your clit. You closed your eyes and evened your breath. “Back to me. Heart, mind or… body?” you asked, your brow furrowed in concentration against Viktor’s efforts to throw you off course.

“Which would be the worst?” He quirked his lips against yours and chuckled at another concentrated huff. He could feel your unrelenting grip on his shoulders, was convinced that it would leave a mark, and it made his cock twitch in his pants. To be marked by this gentle creature, a dream.

“Any of them, without the others,” you quipped, your eyes shut. Viktor’s movements stilled at that. You had managed to surprise him. Again. Of course, you would want to devour him as much as he wanted to devour you. Eat you whole, spit out the bones and build a shrine out of them. Ugly.

He retreated his hand and chuckled at the muffled whine that followed. He licked his fingers clean once your eyelids fluttered open, making sure you were watching. Rude. But he was going to kiss you with this mouth.

His hands snaked back up your spine, your body pliant against his, providing him with warmth. His teeth and lips got back to work on the swell of yours, and you fell right into it, mouth open, when his tongue pushed itself down your throat as Viktor began his meal. “I will die if I don’t fuck you,” he rasped. So fucking dramatic over nothing, over just a kiss and some unfinished fingering, and a clipped conversation about what he wanted.

He could abandon it here. He could walk out; he could sit on your bed and just study and watch Dexter. He could drink his tea, already cold, he could make you blush all evening, bid you goodbye and go back to his grimy room to jerk off and fuck off. But he couldn’t stop.

“Please, I’ll be so good to you,” he prayed to you, your hands so warm on his waist as he kissed you till he was out of breath. “You don’t know what you are doing to me.” Pathetic, moronic wail escaped him. And he knew you only grew wetter and wetter, your lips getting hotter on him. Panting, you pulled him by the belt and walked the two of you over to the bed, leaving Viktor with no other support than yourself.

He had never rid himself of his clothes so fast. Everything he had on, tossed and crumpled by the bed, next to your own little pile. All the layers of the second, the third skin abandoned, his brace, his pants, his boxers, embarrassingly soaked with sweat and precum, when he crawled on top of you just to keep kissing you and biting your neck, leaving nasty marks everywhere. He panted, his own breath betraying him as your skin came in contact and Viktor whined simply at his cock rubbing against your thigh and he wanted more.

“If you want to stop, tell me.” Another raspy, absolutely dishonest, but a proper plea, asking for the complete opposite. Please, never ask me to stop. “Do you understand?” You nodded, again—not good enough. Your eyes so wide, he could barely see the colour. When you were splayed flat below him, he could see your heart twitching, your chest contracting. A minuscule movement, but he could see it.

“Words, I need to hear your words, lásko,” he growled, stunned by his own impatience.

“I understand.” A kindness in your voice enveloped him. He slid you down the mattress by the ankles, his cock rested against your slit. With clumsy hands he put on a condom, stole a pillow from under your head to support his bum leg and adjusted his crooked crouch. You had the audacity to chuckle at the commonality of his movements and he bit your calf in response.

Absolutely unhinged, you hooked your foot behind his neck, and he immediately loved the weight that pulled him down, steadied him, as he teased your entrance. You held a breath; he had forsaken the privilege of air long time ago.

The first thrust was just blissful. He could feel the crease on his forehead relaxing, his mouth opening, his jaw hanging heavily, just joy and warmth, him awash in it. He felt so full, so complete, yet it was you who was full of him as your bodies slotted together easily, differently to the last time, which left him feeling awkward and ashamed and unfinished.

You rested your hands on his hips, gripping the sharp angle of his bones, your fingernails leaving crescent marks that he would run his fingers over in the morning. “You are doing so well,” he whispered in awe, and it was honest, and you loved it, he felt it in his cock getting squeezed in a silent gratitude.

He felt his ugliness leaving him with each pump of his hips, each sloppy sound of your bodies bumping against each other, his cock twitching inside you, and he needed one more thing to make this even less ugly.

He brushed his thumb over your clit, stretching it, teasing you and taking in all your huffs and puffs, your contorting stomach muscles, your tightening walls. A longing look and an echoing question followed. “Do you love me?”

“Viktor, don’t be cruel,” you answered so fast, he almost retreated. How could you think so? A childlike curiosity creeped onto his face.

“I am not. I really ought to know. Just say yes or no,” Please, just say yes. He felt you twitch at the question, and it made him think he was right. But he could have also been completely deranged. Brain burnt by lust and all the ugly things.

“Viktor—” you pleaded at the loss of his thumb on you.

“I can feel you. Yes or no?” A hard thrust, right up your guts. You yelped, and he could see the tears forming in the corners of your eyes, and the sight was something to behold, keep in the palace of his mind forever.

“Then, why are you asking?” You were ready for filth. For his erotic weirdness, for his awkwardness, for all the want he would suppress every time you interacted. You felt it all in his fleeting touch, in the warmth of his thigh when your naked toes rested against it idly, unintentionally, though very intentionally. But this was how you coax a cat. And this was not how cats responded.

“You will see,” he promised, more to himself. “Do you love me, now, in this moment, when I’m fucking you? Yes or no?” Another twitch of your cunt at ‘love’. He left himself unguarded, shielded only by the mould of your womb.

“Yes.” A tiny, shy ‘yes’. But it fell right into Viktor’s heart and there it grew into a big promise, and he would keep it and take care of it and cherish it.

His body bent in half, his mouth seeking yours. A sloppy kiss, painful, with teeth at your tender lip. Another, earnest, slow and careful. Another, quick and fleeting, before he found your ear. Between them, “I love you,” whispered back like a secret, like a prize for your struggle.

Your breaths grew frantic, you wanted to keep him close. You tangled your fingers into his hair, tugging him in, so you could lick the sweat from his neck, bite it and claim it. Your leg slipped onto his hip, and you curled it around him, his bone digging into your thigh.

“Do you see? How it feels?” he rasped into your ear, gripping you tight. “To be loved while being fucked? Tell me how it feels.” Viktor moaned with each of his thrusts, holding back getting harder and harder. His cock getting more swollen. Your walls getting tighter.

“Amazing,” you whispered, pulling his mouth back to yours. “I love you.”

Viktor’s eyes rolled back into his skull. He slumped onto you, his hands snaking behind your waist, and he could feel your sweat merging with his as your chests pressed together. “I love you,” he cooed weakly. “You can come now, lásko.”

He felt your thighs clutch on his hips, a long spasm twisting your spine underneath him. You came with an orgasm wrenching breath out of your lungs, leg bending, blinding. The ‘I love you’ falling from your lips over and over again, and Viktor could finally let go and spill all his ugliness out. He came with a loud moan seconds after, his brain fucked out, his heart swollen, as he came loved for what he was.

He held you tight through it, chests heaving, when he felt a quiver and wetness on his cheek. “Are you hurt?” he whispered.

You sobbed onto his chest, hands caged in his arms as you tried to release them and wipe the tears away. “No, no,” you shook your head. “What is this… feeling?” It had no name. For Viktor, it was a dumbing bliss. He could cry too if he wasn’t so warm.

“How do you feel?” He wanted to know what it was like on the other side. No one ever told him, no one ever shared this with him.

“Hollow. Ah… fuck. Empty,” you struggled to find the words, trying them out on your tongue, but they felt wrong. “I feel like you took something… bad from me. And now I don’t know what to do with the space left—” you gasped between sobs as Viktor rolled you to the side and pulled your hair to expose your neck.

You buried your face in the curve of his shoulder. Tears fell on their own, and Viktor wanted to drink them and cry them out himself. When the sobs transformed into clipped breaths, and clipped breaths transformed into one long exhale, you asked carefully, “Viktor, you don’t really love me, do you?”

“Well, do you really love me?” His chest was swollen, his head heavy. He was triumphant. He was so invincible he had it in him to love you.

Silence, for a while. Viktor nudged you gently with his chin and whispered a soft command, “Go to the bathroom, I’ll be here.”

You looked at him, the practicality of it spreading a strange warmth in your belly. Wordlessly, you got up and disappeared, still naked as day, and Viktor watched your feet shuffle in the creak of the bathroom door. He got up, put on his underwear, and drank his cold tea in one go.

When you got out, a relief glimpsed through your face, as if you were expecting him to be gone. He waited for you with a cup of tea and a clean sweatshirt, beckoning you to slide into it. Once you both had a singular piece of clothing on, he pulled you back into bed and cuddled sweetly into you. “How do you feel now?” he asked, running his fingers through your hair.

“I feel… like I really need you to love me right now,” you let it slide out. Even though your sweatshirt shielded you from the chill of the room, your soul was still completely bare and shivering. And Viktor loved this nudity, the weirdness of it, the feeling of belonging it gave him.

He found that is was his hands that were lingering now, that the tender thought of the morning coffee was no longer distorted by fear, the quiet and the silence became comfortable in a good way. He felt so wanted, so beautiful in your eyes. He felt all the right things and none of the wrong things. His ugly snake was skinned and turned into a beautiful object. In this beautiful space only beautiful words seemed fitting. “I really do love you right now.”

[ditzydoe444]

MDNI 18+

nerd! jason and bimbo! reader ౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹

part 1 (current) | part 2 | part 3

you approached nerd! jason after your lecture, you’ve been struggling to keep up with the content for the past few weeks, and after stalking him in the library you realised he was quite smart and a total loser. just what you wanted. you beamed, gently tapping his shoulders after class with the biggest smile you could possibly give that would make a man weak at his knees. and when you said he was a total loser, he was a total fucking loser. he became a stuttering mess seeing a pretty girl like you, jason was never popular or got any attention from women, so seeing a girl like you talking to him almost made him come on the spot.

nerd! jason who did not hesitate to accept tutoring you the moment you asked, he stuttered out a response, his cheeks and ears turning pink as he tried to avoid eye contact, the last thing he wanted was to get lost in your pretty round eyes.

however your tutoring sessions didn’t really go as planned.

you couldn’t help but to get turned on at the sight of him teaching you, the way he was so soft and gentle making sure you actually understood the information instead of rushing on made you unreasonably horny. your perfectly manicured nails drifted down to his thigh, gently caressing it as you watched him physically melt, stumbling over his words as his hand shaking as he held the pen. yes nerd! jason was a total loser, but he was also so god damn hot. the man was tall, 6’4 maybe? and god his muscles? his broad shoulders were prominent through the sweaters he would wear in class, the way they were rolled up in his forearms allowing you to see his veins and muscles made your eye roll. he had a slightly rugged face, sharp jawline and prominent sharp nose, but had the biggest shy boyish personality.

despite having absolutely no experience with women, he sure knows how to fuck. when you first gave him a handjob, his cock so god damn big to the point where it put the frat boys you hooked up with to shame. the way he moaned and tilted his head back, mumbling ‘don’t stop’ was enough to give you the biggest orgasm alone.

you didn’t expect anything in return, just giving him a hand job before he patted his thighs. when you refused his soft tone changed into a lower demanding one, saying though he was inexperienced he wasn’t a fucking loser to let a girl give him a hand job and not give something in return.

nerd! jason knew how to fuck, after giving him small tips and guidance, which unlike the frat boys he took no insult to the advices you gave, listening and following them made your knees weak. he’s never made a woman come before because he was a virgin, and well, seeing you come for the first time made him want to do it over and over again. he fucked you so god damn dumb.

[seasidefallenangel]

now say i'm the only one you need

ranking the bllk men on how good of a boyfriend they are ft. isagi yoichi, bachira meguru, chigiri hyoma, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, karasu tabito, otoya eita, yukimiya kenyu, michael kaiser, alexis ness

song from here listen to it to get a kiss from me

༄ isagi: 10/10

one third of the “perfect boyfriend trio.” he’s incredibly attentive of all your needs and overall is very good at balancing his soccer career with your relationship. dictionary definition of “walk him like a dog.” anything you say goes and he’s more than happy with things being that way. actually has a pretty high tolerance for whatever things you might put him through, he tends to be good at solving problems before they can spiral out of control. the most you’ll have to deal with is the fact he can be kind of on the more awkward and shy side of things, unsure how to really be in a relationship. he wasn’t really popular or well known at all before blue lock, so at most he had crushes that were one-sided. his friends joke and tease about how you’ve got him wrapped around your finger. he doesn’t even care that they’re right.

༄ bachira: 9/10

the thing with bachira is that you’re not gonna date him unless you’re okay with all of his quirks, so there’s really nothing “bad” or unexpected going into the relationship. at his worst he can be clingy and a smidge overbearing, but he’s terrified of you deciding you want something more, better than him. he’s very easy going because of this, and really won’t have any disagreements with whatever ideas strike you. you’re actually a rock in this life, and he feels safe confiding all the thoughts clawing at his mind when he’s being held in your arms. despite what people may think, he does have a calmer temperament to him - generally after practice or late at night. he’s a big cuddle bug and will most likely fall asleep on your stomach, clinging to you so you can’t leave him.

༄ chigiri: 5/10

rose-glasses off, chigiri kinda sucks. he’s very selfish without the whole egoist thing going on, and it’s confirmed in canon that a lot of people get turned off by his personality after being drawn in by his looks. he obviously has some interest in you if you’re dating, but that doesn’t mean his bad traits magically go away. his mindset is very “me before you.” if you’re arguing he’s going to bring up points for the sole purpose of hurting you because he has to be right. he has too much pride to admit when he's wrong but also to apologize for his actions. on the opposite side of that, though, is compliments and the like are easy for him to give you. he’s pretty open with his opinions so if he likes a certain thing about you he has no qualms with telling you as such. he would never deny you're dating and generally likes to show you off, wanting everyone to know he bagged an incredible person. he’s not the worst person to date, but it probably won’t be worth anything as a long term relationship.

༄ nagi: 6/10

nagi is my favorite character and that’s why i need to say this. he does have some merit for what it’s worth. he’s very physically affectionate and is also really easy to be around. i see him as being more open to compromise if you’re stern enough with him. he might complain a bit but he’s not that hard to convince. the biggest issue with him is that he just… doesn’t care. if he goes to a new cafe with you it’s cause you asked him, not because he wanted to. it’s not that he doesn’t love you, he just doesn’t process things like this in his brain. the concept of ‘doing things for your partner before they ask’ doesn’t click. he’s not a mind reader, so isn’t just being vocal about what you want the easiest? he doesn’t really expect much from you as a partner so easily grows confused at why you have these random demands and expectations from him when you know exactly how he is. it might not be a dealbreaker, but it does make you question if he’s ever actually enjoying his time with you.

༄ reo: 8/10

reo’s biggest issues are 1.) he's absurdly jealous and 2.) his money. the thing with his money is the fact he uses it almost as a deflector of sorts. if you have a genuine problem you need to sort out with him, he's giving you new jewelry, designer bags, dinners at michelin star restaurants instead of talking it out. he doesn’t want to give you the chance to bring up your displeasure in regards to something he’s done. it’s his default answer because it’s the only thing people have wanted from him. reo is actually very scared of conflict. he’s worried you’ll leave him at the first sign of him not being the picture perfect boyfriend that’s expected from him, which ties into the jealousy. if someone has a trait you admire, he’ll mold himself to fit that thing you seem to like.  he hates when you even acknowledge other people’s talents or attractive features  (save for nagi.) speaking of nagi, it’s played out but i do believe he’s the only person reo will share you with. if nagi wants to cuddle, kiss, act like your boyfriend, reo has no issue as long as he’s involved too. when you’re someone reo truly loves, he’ll let you do pretty much anything to him with no repercussions. it’s very easy to take advantage of him as long as you promise stay by his side.

༄ rin: 7/10

no matter how much he denies it, rin tries very hard to be sae. he wants to be the nonchalant boyfriend, never losing his cool and making it seem like you’re always running back for more. in truth, he couldn’t be more obvious about how badly he needs you. he has this sort of non-stop identity crisis going so he’s going to have this front of “fine with you, fine without you.” he wants you to think he doesn’t need you that bad because he’s worried you’ll see him as weak. the thing that makes it obvious is that when you’re threatening to leave because he’s just too hot and cold, he caves instantly. teeth gritted, he’ll ask what you want him to change, what kind of person should he be for you? after sae, he became so desperately starved for love that the second you started dating  he felt like he was suffocating, always needing your validation but unable to ask for it. similarly to reo, he’s easy to take advantage of if you insinuate that you’re unhappy with something currently in your relationship. be gentle because you can break him apart and he’ll always think it was his fault.

༄ sae: 9/10

i’m gonna go against the grain and say that sae is actually a great boyfriend because he wouldn’t bother getting into a relationship to begin with if he didnt think it’s worth his time. he’s an incredibly self assured person so he has no reason to be all wishy-washy with who he’s interested. sae’ll make it clear he wants to date you and obviously you’re reciprocating because duh, he’s sae itoshi. from the get go he’ll remind you that soccer is his career, his lifeblood, and while he loves you more, his priorities lay there. the fact he straight up admits it instead of letting it become a festering issue is exactly why he’s so good because neither of you will have wasted time in the relationship. he’s also easier to talk to than one might think. sae generally believes drawn out arguments are pointless  and wasting energy on them doesn’t help anyone, so any that you two have are squashed pretty quickly. affection comes pretty easily to him but he can be a little emotionally absent at his worst. it’s not really something that changes over time, but he has other methods of making sure you know he adores you. it’s very “what you see is what you get.” if you’re acquainted with him at all, there’s really no negative surprises or unexpected twists that put a damper on the romance between you both. if nothing else, he makes sure the whole world know exactly who you belong to, and it leaves you with no room to doubt he plans to keep you by his side forever.

༄ karasu: 10/10

one third of the “perfect boyfriend trio.” this is generally a shock to people who know the kind of company he keeps around but the thing is that karasu doesn’t approve of otoya’s behavior. he goes from insinuating otoya could be doing better things with his time than leading girls on to flat out telling him he’s pathetic for not holding down a relationship. most of the girls who have their hearts broken by otoya fall in love with karasu right after from how kindly he treats them and the way he apologizes for his friends nasty habits. karasu holds a lot of respect for you as a person since he’s attracted to people he can analyze and read into. a common bonding activity is just him asking your opinions on certain topics or how you’d approach a theoretical situation and he’ll sit back and listen, trying to dig into your mind. he’s also very self aware of his flaws and will admit he isn’t perfect but is always working to better himself (“his weakness is that he can't be nice to people he thinks are mediocre and knows he needs to fix that.”) it’s not like you’ll never have issues, but he always resolves them in a way that doesn’t add tension or doubt to your relationship. he’s also good with all 5 love languages and prefers to show them all to you, but if you have ones you prefer or dislike then he can easily adjust. he’s always listening to you, learning about you, wanting to be the best version of himself he can for you.

༄ otoya: 6/10

the glaring bone of contention with otoya is obvious to anyone who knows him - but not in the way you think. otoya can be a good boyfriend if he wants ; he knows what girls like, what makes them happy, how to keep them satisfied. he’s had enough practice for it to be second nature. once you're in a genuine relationship with him, he’s going to treat you pretty well. thing is - that’s exactly his problem. in the back of your head you know why he’s so good at this. you know you’re an idiot for thinking you can change him despite the fact you did. it’s just impossible to believe. every time he tries to reassure you that yes, you’re his only, he doesn’t want to go back to his old ways, you’re just staring at him thinking to yourself, ‘wonder how many times he’s used this line on someone.’ you’re just never going to have a sense of security with him because there’s always this lingering "what if" bouncing around. the worst part is that it’s not an unreasonable line of thought. mindless paranoia is one thing, but there’s so much proof against him that you’d be more humiliated for assuming he isn’t cheating on you - you can’t date a serial cheater and be really that mad or shocked if he does. you know what you signed up for accepting his confession, so your entire viewpoint is that it’s a matter of ‘when’ and not ‘if’. you can never ever say with full confidence he's 100% yours, even when he is.

༄ yukimiya: 10/10

one third of the “perfect boyfriend trio.” i know it’s like beating a dead horse since this is a commonly shared sentiment but he really is incredible. a big part of the reason why is actually the fact he’s emotionally mature. he’s in tune with how he feels and knows how to convey it respectfully but isn’t so set in his ways he can’t see what points you want to make if you were to disagree on something. something else is that he’s very good at reading your micro-behaviors and can fall in line pretty well with how you act without compromising his own personality (in comparison to how someone like bachira or alexis would.) if you tend to be on the shyer side, not really one to defend yourself, he has no issue stepping in and solving whatever problem is going on. on the flip if you are more outgoing and not scared to bite at people then he'll fall back, only intervening when he can sense things’ll get ugly if he doesn’t tug on your leash a little bit. something he particularly enjoys doing is picking up hobbies or skills that you enjoy or would appreciate. he’ll learn how to cook if you hate it or asks you to read your favorite books to him at night, wrapped in his arms while he presses a gentle kiss against your temple. 

༄ kaiser: 4/10 to 8/10 

the thing with kaiser is that he’s a really good boyfriend, but you have to go through hell to get to that point. he has so many walls and has all these little “tests” where he tries to catch you using him for his money, status, looks, etc. kaiser wants to convince himself that love obviously isn’t real ; look at his parents for god’s sake. so he’s always trying to plan some “gotcha” thing and catch you in the act. the issue is, he doesn’t. you’re really like this from the bottom of your heart and he can’t wrap his head around that fact. so he goes to the emotion he knows best - anger. he’s lashing out at you for lying to him, accusing you of all sorts of things because surely there’s no way this is real, that he has something fully his, someone who cherishes him and sees him for his best. this entire process isn’t a few months either - this is a good two or three years. he has a lot of built up trauma to navigate both on his own and with you. if you somehow have the conviction to get through this then he’ll be a really incredible guy to have around. he loves you so fiercely that he’d rather die than let the one good thing he’s been gifted to slip from his fingers, but everyone in your life is going to hate him by then and insist he hasn’t changed, feeling like you’re going to eventually be broken by him.

༄ alexis: ?/10

alexis is actually pretty similar to bachira, just more extreme. in any other context, his obsessions would be viewed as something of concern or distasteful but dating alexis means you already would know about it and in turn only get into a relationship if you were okay with it. it’s not as if his attachment to kaiser is a secret. if you’re going in with the “i can fix him” mentality then you’ve doomed yourself already. you have to already accept his quirks and such to really reach him in a way that matters. a relationship with him is this unending back and forth. you're actually not really going to be viewed as this untouchable deity because he's already yours. he doesn't have to prove his worth like with kaiser. the thing is that kaiser molded who he is now so kaiser is kind of his tie to humanity - without him, alexis doesn’t really have much keeping him tied to earth. don’t think you’re not important to him because and he’s going to insane lengths for you to accept his unhealthy outlets of showing his love and devotion to you. he feels so much more human with you because you’re giving him the attention that he has to beg kaiser for but without the requirements to earn it - you just love him naturally. he’s not trying to prove that he deserves your love, he’s trying to prove that he loves you just as much back but he doesn’t know how to do it normally. he doesn’t know how to offer himself to you in a way that isn’t self destructive. he’s stuck in this non-stop cycle of you trying to convince him he doesn’t need to like earn your love and him thinking that it’s you saying he’s not doing enough to to earn your love and thus he goes to more extremes. if you can handle it then he’s great for you, you’ll never question that he’s madly in love with you. but if you get overwhelmed then he grows more unstable, and you’re stuck trying to make him better while he makes himself worse to hopefully get you to finally praise him for shattering who he is.

[yeyinde]

slowly being led into a very (bad and) codependent D/s relationship with Price is all I can think about right now.

It starts off small, too. Casual touches. It's what he's known for—tactile; a man of raw, untempered physicality, and you wonder if the absence of touch makes his palms itch sometimes—and you let it happen. Let it grow. Evolve. Shift from a breath to a kiss. Morphing from a ghost to something substantive. Corporeal.

His knuckles grazing your forearm when he stands beside you. His hand on your lower back. Correcting your form with both hands. Smothering his chest against your spine. Then—

His hand on your thigh. Slipping lower down your back until his pinky lifts over the curve of your ass. Possessive. It reeks of ownership. But you don't tell him to stop.

It's grounding. You're not sure why. It just is. Like counting to ten. Focusing on some distant object. One, two. His hand on your wrist. His thighs pressed tight to yours. Hands on you, always, until it feels as natural as breathing. Three, four.

These touches usually accompany his voice. The low grit of a command dragging over gravel. Nails against sandpaper. Whispered demands just for you. Only you.

Or, at least, that's how they start.

Optional. Suggestions. Things you can prise apart with your own will. Agency still glueing to your throat but—

Not for long.

His touch finds its way there, too.

Fingers against your neck. Your jaw. Cheek. It feels natural to let them slip between your lips. And as strange as it is (isn't), there's nothing really dirty about it. It's not sexual. Not yet. It's just—

(there's a hole in your throat aching for his fingers to fill)

Five, six.

He offers another suggestion, but when you go to answer (agency, autonomy), his fingers find their way inside your mouth, snuffing out the protests between thick, grizzled knuckles. Something inside of you shifts, a subtle subluxation, at the raw, heavy taste of him on your tongue.

He lowers your chin with a slight pressure against your jaw until you're staring at his throat. Submissive. He groans, fingers twitching. Calls you a good girl when you keep your gaze there. Always. Even with other people around. Alone. Supplicant.

It becomes a routine, much like everything else, to have his fingers inside your mouth; pacifying. Stealing the voice from between your teeth.

And choices—so many of them, too. You hadn't realised how many decisions you had to make in a day until it was muffled between the salty, geosmin tang of rough, calloused fingers stroking your tongue. Freeing in a way that you can define in simple words. Can't explain to your friends when they ask why you're acting like you're feening for a cigarette whenever he's away from you. Jaw gnashing. Pacing. Skin itching. Burning. Unsettled. Raw. Nothing makes sense without his hands on your body. His taste on your tongue.

You try to replicate the feeling on your own by shoving your knuckle between your teeth at work when the noise, the choices, scream too loud in your ears. Your head. In your bedroom—two fingers down your throat, two sliding between your folds. A lit cigar burning, untouched, in the ashtray you bought. Perched as close to the edge of your end table as you could get it. Musk, leather. Something strong. Something that smells like him drenching your sheets. But it's not enough. It's never enough.

It isn't him.

You edge around this perverse neediness like its an open, infectious sore. Something has to give. Something has to break—

It doesn't take long until your mouth falls open at the sight of him, eager. So eager. You need it, and nearly sob when he peels his fingers away from your needy mouth, and tells you he has to leave again. But his gaze slants towards the case of cigars with a little grunt that makes your mouth water. A quiet good girl uttered as soft a rustling sheet, stuffing the hole in your throat for a little while longer. Soothing the ache.

Seven, eight.

Somewhere along the way, it just makes sense to sit on his lap instead of a chair. To keep your tongue tucked between two fingers, swallowing down the taste of him as he goes about his own routine. As if you're not even there. A paperweight against his chest.

Maybe he needs this as much as you do, too.

And that's good, really. Because you can't focus without him. The world is too much, too loud; too big.

It makes it easier to give in. Cut your lease. Let him pack everything you own into the back of his car.

(He groans like you've gutted him when you tell him you've already handed in your resignation two weeks ago.)

In private, in his office (your home now, too), you kneel on a satin pillow (when you're good), head bowed against his thigh, breathing in the heady musk of him. Gasoline. Iodine. Agar. Smoke. His hand falling down every so often to stroke calloused fingers against your nape. Tobacco. Worn leather. Fresh ink.

Your head is empty in these moments, forehead pressed against the cotton of his trousers. Deliciously so. You hadn't realised how much you think, either, until he cupped his hand around the back of your head and pushed your nose into his thigh. Mind reeling. Looping. Crowded. Loud. Until—

The scratch of a pen on paper. Metal sliding against wood. The hollow thunk of his hand dropping against the surface. Breaths. The whine of his chair when he shifts. A grunt. Empty, empty—

And when the catch of a zipper fills the air, you let his hands guide you to where you need to be, lips already parting at the slightest brush of his knuckles on your cheek. Open, willing. Empty.

He feeds you his cock without a word because none needs to be said. You know what to do. He's been training you for this moment from the onset. And the realisation of it settles around you like a blanket; that thing inside of you shifts again, sliding into place.

This is where you belong.

His hand on your crown. His growling voice in your ear. "Look at me when you swallow my cock, sweetheart—mm, that's my good girl."

(Nine, ten.)