#sometimes the emotion is waiting in a dark alley

[missmadella]

Quiet Company (Mikey x Reader)

Summary: You never meant to meet him. You were just looking for air, for quiet. A rooftop far above the noise of the city, a place where no one asked why your hands still shook or why you only ever brought enough food for one. You didn’t know the pale-haired man already sitting at the ledge that first evening. And when you saw him, you didn’t ask anything. You just sat nearby… close enough to exist beside him, far enough to keep your pain to yourself.

Words: 13910

Trigger Warning: This story contains sensitive themes such as domestic abuse, emotional abuse, grief, self-blame, alcohol abuse, physical injury, and emotional vulnerability.

Please read with caution and consider your emotional well-being.

(It’s not as heavy as it might seem, but your mental health matters, and it's important to take care of yourself.)

The streets of Tokyo buzzed quietly beneath the weight of night. Neon lights flickered half-heartedly through a haze of exhaust and fatigue as you trudged past rows of closed storefronts. The sky was already dark, your shift long since ended, but your body still felt like it was on autopilot.

Your hand tightened around the thin plastic handles of the bag dangling at your side, its contents swinging gently with each step. Just one thing inside—a dorayaki from your favorite little shop. You didn’t really have the appetite for it tonight, but sometimes the ritual mattered more than the taste.

A tall, aged apartment building loomed ahead. It wasn’t your home. It wasn’t anyone’s you knew. But the rooftop was always unlocked, and you liked the view. Up there, the city didn’t press down so hard. It felt... distant. Manageable.

As you approached the rusted side stairwell, you didn’t notice the black luxury car parked in the shadowed alley beside it. Sleek, silent, and out of place. Inside, a man with pink-streaked hair and half-lidded eyes sat waiting, a lazy cigarette burning between his fingers. Sanzu watched you with passing curiosity, but didn’t move. You weren’t what he was here for.

You started the long climb up the stairs, the kind that made your knees ache and your mind quiet. Floor after floor. Step after step. The city felt miles away by the time you reached the rooftop door.

You pushed it open, greeted instantly by the night wind, and stepped out with a tired exhale.

But you weren’t alone.

A figure sat near the edge of the rooftop, legs dangling over the side, body hunched forward in quiet stillness. His hair—short, snow-white—caught the neon glint of distant signs. He didn’t turn as you entered, but there was something about his presence that made the air feel heavier.

You paused.

He didn’t seem startled, or even interested. Just... still. Like the skyline had absorbed him.

You debated leaving.

But he wasn’t doing anything. Just sitting there. Alone.

And honestly, you were too tired to care.

So, without a word, you crossed the rooftop slowly and sat down several feet away from him—far enough for space, close enough to feel the breeze together. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t ask why he was there. You just unwrapped your dorayaki, the crinkle of plastic loud in the silence, and took a small bite.

After a minute, you felt it: his gaze.

Not invasive. Not judging. Just... watching.

You looked his way slightly, meeting dark eyes. They were sharp, quiet, and tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.

He spoke without looking away.

“…That’s dorayaki.”

You blinked, surprised by the quiet, gravel-edged voice. “Yeah,” you said after a pause. “Want some?”

He hesitated.

“That used to be my favorite,” he murmured.

You broke off a clean half and held it out to him in your open palm, wordless.

For a second, he didn’t move.

Then he took it, fingers brushing yours briefly—cold and calloused.

The wind picked up. The silence settled again.

But this time, it felt like company instead of solitude.

He took the dorayaki with a kind of cautious stillness—like he was unfamiliar with the idea of someone offering something without a price. His fingers lingered for a second longer than they needed to, then withdrew.

You didn’t say anything. Just returned to your own half and took another bite, eyes fixed on the skyline.

From up here, the city didn’t feel quite so harsh. The lights glittered like they belonged to another world. One that kept turning, whether you kept up or not.

The man beside you didn’t eat his right away.

You caught it out of the corner of your eye—how he stared down at the dorayaki resting in his palm. Like it had brought back a memory he wasn’t sure he wanted. His profile was calm, unreadable. Beautiful in that delicate, worn-down kind of way. Not soft—more like something polished by grief and silence.

Still, you didn’t ask anything.

You didn’t need to.

People came to rooftops like this one to be left alone. You understood that. And yet... neither of you had left.

“I come up here to breathe,” you said after a while. Not loud, not asking for a response. Just offering it to the quiet. “Everything down there’s too loud sometimes.”

His eyes flicked toward you—brief, barely a second—and then away.

You didn’t mind the lack of a reply. In fact, it was a little comforting. Most people fill silence out of fear. He let it exist.

Eventually, he spoke, voice low, the kind you almost mistake for the wind.

“You come here often?”

“Couple times a week,” you said. “When work gets too much, or when I can’t stand my own apartment.”

A ghost of something passed over his face. Understanding. Maybe recognition. Maybe regret.

You smiled softly and glanced toward him. “What about you? Live nearby?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he finally took a bite of the dorayaki.

Chewed. Swallowed.

“…Not really,” he said quietly. “I just… needed to be somewhere tonight.”

You nodded, respecting that. Some people needed bars. Some needed noise. Others—people like you—needed open sky.

The wind rustled again. The plastic bag fluttered beside you.

You noticed, absently, that his coat looked expensive. The way he sat—back straight, alert even in stillness—told you he wasn’t just any guy killing time. But there was nothing threatening about him. He looked... exhausted. Not from the day. From living.

You tucked your knees up to your chest and rested your chin there, staring out at the distant blinking red light atop a skyscraper.

“I won’t ask why,” you said quietly. “But I hope whatever brought you here… eases up soon.”

He glanced at you again. Really looked, this time.

And maybe—just maybe—you saw a crack in the wall behind his eyes.

“…You’re weird,” he said, but there was no venom in it. Just a touch of surprise. Maybe even something bordering on warmth.

You gave a tired little laugh. “Takes one to know one.”

That earned a breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh. But it was something.

Neither of you spoke for a while after that.

The city buzzed far below, and the sky above was starting to collect stars—only a few, barely visible against the light pollution, but they were there.

You finished your half of the dorayaki and wiped your fingers on a napkin from your bag. He still had a small bite left in his hand but didn’t seem to be in a rush to finish it.

He looked at it, then at you.

“What’s your name?” he asked, like it just occurred to him he didn’t know it.

You gave it, quietly.

He didn’t offer his in return. You didn’t ask. The moment didn’t need it.

The air was cooler now, brushing against your face with a gentleness that made your eyelids heavy. The city below was still alive, but it no longer pulled at your thoughts.

Beside you, the white-haired stranger sat in contemplative silence, half-eaten dorayaki resting between his fingers. It felt like neither of you wanted to speak in case you broke the fragile stillness—like talking too loud might scare it off.

But time, as always, pressed forward.

You checked your phone for the first time since arriving. A new message. A reminder of the world waiting for you downstairs.

You sighed, stood slowly, and stretched with a soft groan. Your body protested a little, but you were used to it.

He didn’t move. Just glanced up at you.

“I should go,” you said, brushing invisible dust from your clothes. “Early morning again.”

He gave the smallest of nods. Still seated, still quiet. You hesitated for just a second. Then, wordlessly, you reached into your plastic bag and pulled out the second dorayaki you’d bought—something you'd meant to eat tomorrow, or maybe not at all.

You stepped closer, slowly, and set it down on the concrete beside him. Just within reach.

You didn’t meet his eyes when you spoke.

“I think you need it more than I do.”

He looked up at you—actually looked this time. There was a flicker of something there that hadn’t been before. Not surprise. Not gratitude.

Something softer.

Maybe even human. You offered him the ghost of a smile. Not cheerful. Just real.

Then you turned and walked away, not waiting for a reply. You didn’t need one. You pushed open the rooftop door and let it swing shut behind you, metal hinges groaning.

Back in the stairwell, the world felt heavier again. No skyline. No breeze. No strange, quiet man with hollow eyes and a heart you couldn’t see—but maybe, just maybe, had started to beat again.

On the rooftop, Mikey sat alone once more.

He stared down at the untouched dorayaki beside him, then at the city stretched endlessly below.

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like jumping.

___________________________________________________________

A week passed.

You didn’t expect to see him again.

He hadn’t said his name. He hadn’t made any promises. He’d just sat beside you in the quiet and accepted a piece of your night.

But something about him lingered—like the smell of rain on warm pavement. You found yourself looking at rooftops and alley corners a little differently, wondering if he might appear again in the edges of your world.

Tonight, the city was buzzing too loud in your head again.

So instead of the rooftop, you pushed open the cracked door to one of the old, abandoned apartments just a floor or two beneath it. You’d discovered it months ago—left unlocked, unclaimed, forgotten.

Dust blanketed everything. Paint peeled from the corners. But tucked into the far end of the room, beneath a window that faced the flickering skyline, stood an upright piano. Old. Out of tune in places. But still alive.

You stepped inside and closed the door behind you, leaving the world out there in the hallway.

Your fingers hovered for a moment over the keys, then settled. You didn’t play anything complicated. Just soft chords. Gentle melodies. Music that didn’t need to prove itself. Notes filled the space slowly, like light pouring into water. The city outside blurred. Your heartbeat steadied.

You didn’t hear the door open. But you felt him. That same stillness from before—quiet, watchful, heavy. Not threatening. Just present.

Your hands didn’t falter on the keys. You didn’t turn.

You knew it was him.

He stood in the doorway for a while, silent as a shadow, eyes fixed on you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. Then—without a word—you reached out your left hand, palm open, fingers gentle and inviting.

An unspoken gesture.

Come here.

He moved eventually, quietly, walking across the creaking floorboards. He didn’t sit beside you—didn’t press too close. Instead, he lowered himself in front of the piano, back against the old wall, legs stretched out, head tilted up.

His eyes fluttered shut.

You kept playing. And in that abandoned room, you shared something neither of you had language for.

No names. No questions. No history.

Just music.

And the knowledge that somehow, despite the weight both of you carried, this moment felt like breathing.

The soft clinking of keys filled the room like dust caught in sunbeams.

Your left hand stayed extended for a while after he entered, the offer hanging gently between you. When he finally moved, it was with that same quiet grace—no sound beyond the floorboards creaking softly under his boots.

He sat in front of the piano at first, back against the wall, head resting lightly as if the silence itself was cradling him.

You continued to play.

But something in you wanted him closer. Not in front of you. Not across the room. Right there.

Without looking at him, your voice slipped out, calm and clear.

“…Come sit beside me.”

A pause. No movement. Then, slowly, he stood again. The sound of his coat brushing against itself. Footsteps muted.

He sat down on the piano bench. Not facing the keys. Back to you. Shoulders straight, arms resting at his sides, head bowed ever so slightly—like he wasn’t used to being this close to softness, and didn’t quite know what to do with it.

You didn’t say anything more. You just kept playing.

The tune shifted slightly, your fingers brushing over familiar chords in a slow, dreamy rhythm. The kind of music that didn’t need perfection. The kind that felt like thinking out loud.

And then—you hit a wrong note. A flat clunk in the middle of something light and flowing.

Your fingers froze for half a second. Then a soft sound escaped you—a half-laugh, half-sigh. Not embarrassed. Just amused.

You laughed again, fuller this time. A warm, easy laugh that echoed off the empty walls and filled the room with something that wasn’t music, but was just as beautiful.

And for the first time, he reacted. His head lifted slightly. His eyes opened.

He didn’t turn to look at you—but you could feel the shift in the air. He had heard you. Not just your playing. Not just your words.

You.

The sound of your laughter settled into him like a memory he didn’t know he needed. Something small and gentle pressing against the cold edges of his mind.

You wiped at your eye with a knuckle and shook your head lightly. “Well, that killed the mood,” you murmured, still smiling.

He said nothing.

But the corner of his mouth moved. Just a little. Almost a smile. You kept playing, less carefully now. A little more freely. Not afraid to miss a note. And he sat there, back to you, eyes closed again. Not to shut you out. But to hold you in.

________________________________________________________

Your laughter slowly faded, and the last few notes of the song drifted off like smoke, unfinished. You let your hands rest on the keys, but didn’t start a new melody right away.

For a while, you both just sat there—him with his back to you, you still watching his profile out of the corner of your eye. He hadn’t said anything. But he hadn’t left either.

That was something.

You leaned forward a little, arms folding atop the piano as you looked out the dusty window.

“…It’s okay to laugh, you know,” you said softly. “Even if it’s just at me screwing up.”

His voice, when it came, was low and quiet. “I wasn’t laughing.” You tilted your head toward him. “No, you weren’t. But you listened.” A pause. He nodded once, barely.

And then: “You have a nice laugh.”

You blinked, surprised—not by the words, but by the way he said them. Careful. Like it wasn’t a line, or something he usually offered anyone. Just a fact. Something honest.

You smiled again, this time without laughing.

“Thanks. It doesn’t come out much these days.”

He didn’t answer, but his shoulder shifted slightly, as if he wanted to say something else and changed his mind halfway.

So you filled the space.

“You come here to think, don’t you?”

Silence again. Then:

“…I don’t know what I come here for.”

You looked at him, really looked, and for the first time, you realized something had changed since that rooftop meeting.

He looked less… frozen.

Still guarded. Still carrying something heavy in the slope of his shoulders. But there was color in him now. Not just pale white and black clothes.

“You seem different,” you said quietly. “From last time.”

That got his attention.

His head tilted just slightly in your direction, though he still didn’t face you.

“Different how?”

“I don’t know,” you said with a small shrug. “Like maybe… something got a little lighter. Even if it’s still hard to carry.”

He was quiet again.

But this time, the silence wasn’t heavy. It was thoughtful.

Then—he finally turned.

Just enough to see you over his shoulder. His dark eyes studied you quietly, and you let him.

“…What’s your name again?” he asked.

You told him.

The corners of his mouth moved again. Like he was memorizing it this time.

And then—after a beat—he finally offered:

“Manjiro.”

The name settled in the space between you. Heavy, but somehow gentle too. Like he’d just handed you something private.

“Manjiro,” you repeated softly, testing the shape of it in your mouth. “That’s a nice name.”

Most people probably called him something else.

You could tell. But he gave you that name. The one he was born with. And you didn’t ask for more. Didn’t press. Didn’t poke at the mystery behind his tired eyes. You just gave him a small, real smile.

“I’m glad you came back.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer.

“…Me too.”

_____________________________________________________

It was a gray morning.

The kind that didn’t pretend to be anything else. No sunlight breaking through the clouds, no warmth in the air. Just stillness. And a soft, persistent breeze that moved the trees without a sound.

You walked the familiar path through the cemetery, the grass soft beneath your shoes, the paper-wrapped bundle in your hand held gently, like it might shatter.

You didn’t come here often. Not because you forgot.

But because sometimes, remembering felt like trying to hold water in your hands. Today was different.

Today, the ache had crept higher than usual. You’d woken up with a knot in your chest, and by midmorning, you knew where you needed to be.

You stopped at the little stone that bore no name. Only a date. You crouched down slowly, resting the flowers beside it.

“Hey, little one,” you murmured, brushing a few fallen leaves away. “It’s just me again.”

The breeze curled around your ankles, and you closed your eyes for a moment.

Just breathing.

Not far away, footsteps crunched the gravel path. You didn’t look up at first—people came and went here. Quiet mourners, distant relatives, caretakers with tired eyes.

But something in you stirred. That stillness. The presence you somehow recognized now without needing to see.

You turned your head slightly. And there he was.

Manjiro.

He stood beneath a tree not far off, a bouquet of pale lilies in his hand. He stared down at two headstones side by side. You couldn’t read them from here, but the way he stood—still and reverent, like he was holding a conversation without words—told you they were important.

You turned back to your own grief, not wanting to intrude.

But after a while, you heard his steps again. Coming closer. Slow, thoughtful.

He didn’t speak. Just stopped beside you. Not too close. Just close enough that you knew the silence was shared.

You stayed kneeling, hands folded in your lap, eyes on the stone. After a minute, your voice came out low.

“My daughter. She didn’t make it past the first day.”

You hadn’t meant to say it. But maybe some truths only rise to the surface when spoken to someone who carries their own ghosts.

He didn’t respond. Not with words.

But when you looked up, he was crouched beside you now, resting on his heels. Quiet. Present. After a moment, he nodded toward the small marker.

“Can I leave something?” he asked softly. You blinked. Then nodded.

He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out something small—wrapped in a paper napkin.

Dorayaki.

He set it gently beside the stone. You couldn’t speak for a moment.

“I used to bring her sweets when I was pregnant,” you whispered. “Silly, I know.”

“It’s not silly.” You looked at him.

And in his expression—still and unreadable as ever—there was something you hadn’t seen before.

Recognition.

He knew this feeling. He lived in it.

“Your family?” you asked gently, tilting your head toward where he’d been standing.

He didn’t answer right away.

Then: “Yeah. My brother… and my sister.”

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly.

“Me too.” The wind picked up a little. A leaf brushed past your knee.

For a long while, neither of you spoke. But the silence didn’t sting like it usually did. It just sat between you—sad, but not alone anymore.

Eventually, you rose to your feet slowly, brushing your hands off and gazing at the little stone once more. “I’ll come again soon,” you murmured, almost to yourself.

You turned to Manjiro.

“You want to walk with me a bit?” He looked at you for a long second.

Then nodded.

As the two of you stepped away from the graves, side by side, nothing in the world had changed.

But something in your hearts had. Maybe not lighter. But not quite as alone.

__________________________________________________________

The walk back through the cemetery was silent, but this time it didn’t feel uncomfortable. Just quiet, in a way that felt natural between two people who hadn’t asked for the burden they carried but understood it all the same.

Manjiro didn’t speak until you were nearly past the gates, the stone pillars looming above like quiet sentinels. The cemetery was behind you, and the city had started to swallow the sky in its usual dull light.

“So,” he said, his voice low but not unkind. “What about you? What do you do… when you’re not here?”

You glanced at him, surprised.

“I—” You started, but stopped. “I’m a nurse. Work with the elderly mostly. Long hours. Not much time for anything else, to be honest.”

He nodded, the faintest tilt of his head. As if he was piecing it together. As if the quiet that surrounded you had somehow been a part of that.

“What else?” he asked, eyes steady on you, not judgmental. Just curious in that soft, unassuming way.

You hesitated, the warmth of the sun now barely reaching your shoulders as you walked, hands tucked into the pockets of your coat. There was a small sense of unease, like you were offering up something private without meaning to.

But then, you pulled it out of your coat pocket.

A cigarette.

It was wrapped in a simple paper, crinkled slightly from your grip. It wasn’t something you did often, just once in a while—one cigarette a year, usually after a quiet day like today. Something to tether you to that part of yourself before it faded back into the rest of the world.

You slid it between your lips, pulling the lighter from your pocket with slow movements. He didn’t stop you.

As you flicked the lighter, a small breeze caught the flame, and you held your breath for just a second, letting the fire catch.

The first drag was slow—something soothing. The weight of the day still on your shoulders, but in that moment, it felt lighter.

Manjiro didn’t look away. He just watched you, as you took another drag, the smoke curling upward in a way that felt like you were pushing everything away.

“Don’t usually smoke,” you said quietly, exhaling the smoke. “Just sometimes, when the quiet gets too loud.”

He was still for a moment, as if letting that sink in.

“...Does it help?”

You shrugged, taking another drag and blowing it out slowly.

“Helps enough for today,” you said.

A small silence passed between you.

You could feel his gaze still on you, but it wasn’t judgment. It wasn’t critical. Just... curious. Like he was getting to know the parts of you that weren’t laid out so easily.

He didn’t ask more about the cigarette, just like he hadn’t asked more about the grave. But there was something different in the way he looked at you now, like a new layer had been peeled away.

For the first time, he spoke again.

“You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to…” He trailed off, almost hesitant. “But... what’s it like for you? Being a nurse, I mean. All those people you take care of. Does it make it... easier to let go of things?”

You paused, flicking the ash off the tip of the cigarette.

“It’s not about letting go,” you said after a moment. “It’s about... learning how to carry it. You don’t ever really get rid of it. It’s just a part of you now.”

Manjiro said nothing for a while.

You knew he understood.

Eventually, he spoke, voice softer than before.

“I think... it’s the same for me,” he said, almost quietly, as if revealing something he hadn’t admitted aloud in a while. “Trying to carry things. The things I’ve done. The things I’ve lost.”

You glanced at him as he said it. His profile was turned away from you, but his words still hung in the air.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” you said gently, voice quiet, but with an honesty that matched his.

His eyes flicked to you, just for a moment, before looking forward again.

For the briefest second, you saw something like a sigh behind his gaze. Maybe a relief he didn’t know he’d been holding in.

And for the first time, when you exhaled that last bit of smoke into the gray air, it didn’t feel like you were hiding.

You were just being.

Two people. Quietly carrying the weight of things together. Even if it was just for this moment.

You flicked the cigarette away, the ember fading as it fell to the ground.

“Well,” you said with a small, genuine smile, “guess we both know how to carry a little more weight now.”

He didn’t answer, but he did walk beside you for the rest of the way.

In the silence, you both shared a piece of the weight. Not through words. Not through promises.

Just through the company.

___________________________________________________

Mikey sat alone in the backseat of the car, the city drifting past in slow motion through the tinted window.

Sanzu was up front, saying nothing for once. Maybe he felt the difference in the air. Maybe he just knew better than to poke at whatever was sitting on Mikey’s shoulders.

The cigarette smoke still lingered in his mind, long after she flicked it to the pavement.

It hadn’t been sharp like most of the world. It had been soft. Faded. Like the kind of bad habit you hold onto not because you need it—but because it's the only thing that feels real on days when everything else is numb.

That was her, wasn’t it? Soft in a way that didn’t ask for anything. Strong in a way that didn’t announce itself. He leaned his head back against the seat, eyes half-closed.

He could still hear her voice when she talked to the grave. Still see her fingers brush dust from the stone like she was tucking in a sleeping child.

He hadn’t meant to ask about her. That wasn’t how he operated anymore.

He didn’t chase people. Didn’t wonder about them.

But something about her made the silence feel different. Like maybe there was something left in this world that wasn’t soaked in blood or regret.

Still... she said she’d had a daughter. So where was the father?

His fingers drummed slowly against the car door.

Maybe he left. Maybe he died. Maybe he never knew. Mikey didn’t like guessing. Not about this.

“You know a woman who works in elder care?” he asked suddenly, voice low.

Sanzu turned halfway in his seat. “...You want me to find someone?”

Mikey said nothing for a moment.

Then: “She’s a nurse. Works with the elderly. Black coat, soft voice. Goes to the cemetery sometimes. I want to know who she is. What happened to her.”

Sanzu blinked slowly. Then a grin started to pull at the edge of his mouth. But one look from Mikey stopped it before it could finish forming.

“This isn’t for a job,” Mikey added. “Don’t trail her. Just find out what I asked. Quietly.”

Sanzu gave a slight nod. “Got it.” Mikey turned his face back to the window.

He wasn’t looking for leverage. He wasn’t looking for weakness.

He just... couldn’t stop thinking about the way she laughed after hitting the wrong note. The way she asked nothing of him. Not even his name—until he gave it freely.

There was something she carried that wasn’t guilt. It was grief, yes. But not rotten. Not black.

It was tender.

And somewhere deep in that tenderness, he saw a version of himself he couldn’t quite reach anymore. So he stared out the window.

And waited for something that felt real to come back to him again.

_______________________________________________

Sanzu leaned against the edge of Mikey’s desk, his phone in hand, eyes scanning the last few notes he’d taken.

“She’s clean,” he said, tone casual, bored even. “Name’s legit. Works full-time at a private care facility near Sumida. Neighbors say she keeps to herself. Doesn’t talk much unless it’s work-related. Always polite.”

Mikey said nothing, just tapped his fingers slowly on the armrest. Sanzu continued, glancing down at his phone again.

“Married once. A guy named Tsukamoto Riku. High school sweethearts. Got married young. He was a factory worker. Looked like it was going fine for a while.”

A pause. Then Sanzu’s voice shifted—barely noticeable, but a shade colder.

“Everything changed two years ago. She got pregnant. Baby girl was stillborn. Complications. Hospital records line up.”

Mikey’s fingers stopped moving. “She broke,” Sanzu said plainly, with no softness in the words. “But he broke worse. Started drinking. Bad. Real bad. Punched a hole in a wall once. The other time, it was her jaw.”

A long silence. Mikey didn’t flinch.

But something in the room felt colder now.

“She left six months later. No charges pressed. No family left, no friends in the city either. Just started over. Same job. Same routine. Goes to the same grave once a month. Leaves sweets, sometimes flowers. That’s it.”

He tossed the phone lightly onto the table.

“Like I said—she’s clean.”

Mikey didn’t look up. His eyes were fixed on the grain of the wooden desk, unfocused. Sanzu stood there for a beat, waiting for something—anything.

Approval. Dismissal. Maybe even curiosity. But Mikey just sat there.

Eventually, Sanzu shrugged and turned toward the door. Right as he reached it, Mikey spoke.

His voice was quiet. “Thanks.” Sanzu looked over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. But he didn’t say anything else.

He left the room.

Mikey leaned back in the chair, hands steepled in front of his mouth, eyes still locked on nothing. A broken jaw. She had smiled at him.

Laughed, even. Still went to work every day. Still played piano like someone had taught her how to survive with grace. Still offered silence like it was a gift, not a punishment.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. The cigarette made sense now. So did the way she didn’t ask anything of him. She had already lived through someone who took everything.

And survived it.

Mikey wasn’t sure if that made him want to be closer to her—or afraid of what she might see if she got close to him. But one thing was clear now.

He didn’t want to leave her alone in that silence anymore.

_________________________________________________________

It’s late when Mikey returns to the rooftop building.

The city below buzzes in its usual chaos, but up here, the world has a different kind of stillness. One that he’s started craving without realizing it.

He doesn’t expect you to be there tonight.

But the soft sound of piano notes drifts from the open window like a quiet cry wrapped in music.

He stops outside the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the wall, just out of sight. The melody isn’t graceful like before—it’s shaky, like your hands don’t fully trust themselves. Like you're holding back something that wants to spill out.

A soft, broken note. Then another. He listens.

You speak—barely above a whisper, like you don’t even know anyone is listening.

“He came back yesterday…”

Mikey’s eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t move.

Your voice is thin, cracking. “He was drunk again. I thought—I thought maybe it would be different. Just to talk. I shouldn’t have opened the door.”

Silence. Just the echo of a few more soft keys, your hands moving slowly over the piano. Then you say it, quiet but with no shame.

“He said it was my fault. That I gave up on her. That I killed her.”

Mikey’s throat feels dry.

Still, he says nothing. Not yet.

“I didn’t fight back,” you whisper, hands frozen on the keys. “I never do. What’s the point?”

Slowly, you turn, finally noticing him standing there. Your breath catches when you see his expression—but you don’t flinch. Don’t try to hide.

The bruise on your cheek is stark in the pale light. Swollen, dark. A smear of dried blood near the corner of your lip. Your left eye still slightly closed from the swelling.

You give him the smallest, broken smile. “Guess I’m not so quiet after all,” you murmur.

He walks toward you. Not fast. Not angry. Just there.

His eyes lock on yours—dark and unreadable, but not cold. Never cold with you. You look like you’re waiting for something—judgment, maybe. Or pity.

But Mikey says nothing. Instead, he sits next to you, the bench creaking under his weight.

You turn back toward the keys, not playing, just pressing one softly. He reaches out—not to touch you, not yet—but to gently close the piano lid.

And then he says, voice steady, quiet: “What did you do after?”

You blink. “I left. I came here.”

He nods slowly, looking straight ahead. “Good.” Another silence passes.

Then—so softly you almost miss it—he says: “He doesn’t get to say what her death meant.”

You close your eyes. A tear slips down without permission. Mikey looks at you then, really looks. Not at the bruise. Not at the tear.

At you.

“You didn’t kill her,” he says. “You carried her.”

You cry, then—not loud or messy, just quiet tears that fall without needing to explain them. And Mikey doesn’t move.

Doesn’t touch you. Just sits next to you, letting the silence say everything you need.

You’ve held on so long. He can do the same, now—for you.

_________________________________________________

The apartment was in a dying part of the city—peeling walls, a leaking streetlamp outside, and a stairwell that stank of piss and smoke. The kind of place that never asked questions because the people inside didn’t want to hear the answers.

Mikey walked the halls alone.

No Sanzu. No guards. Just him in his black coat, steps measured, soft as dust. He stopped at the door. Apartment 302.

The man inside didn’t know he was coming. But he would learn.

Mikey knocked once. Then again—louder.

The door opened halfway.

Riku Tsukamoto.

Messy hair. Shadowed eyes. A mouth that curled like it had something to prove, even before Mikey said a word.

“The hell are you—?”

Mikey didn’t wait.

He stepped forward, fast, pushing the door wide with the heel of his boot, and grabbed Riku by the collar before the man could even think of resisting. The shove was clean. Controlled.

Riku stumbled backward into the wall. “What the f—who are you?!”

Mikey didn’t raise his voice. He just stared. Eyes like ice, unmoving.

“I’m the man you should’ve prayed never found her.”

Riku’s mouth worked soundlessly. Then: “You talkin’ about—her? She’s my—”

“You lost the right to say her name,” Mikey said, low and sharp.

Riku’s eyes flicked toward the kitchen. Maybe for a weapon. Maybe for an escape. Mikey stepped closer.

“She still flinches when someone knocks.”

Silence.

“You did that,” Mikey continued, voice soft but steady. “Not the grief. You.” Riku said nothing now. Just swallowed hard, the alcohol still faint on his breath.

Mikey didn’t punch him. Didn’t raise a hand. He just leaned in closer.

“You’re going to disappear,” he said, voice flat. “You're going to leave the city. And if you ever think about calling her—even once—you’ll wonder how I found you the first time.”

His tone never changed. That scared men more than shouting ever could.

Riku’s lip trembled. He nodded.

“Say it.”

“I—I'll leave. I swear—”

Mikey stepped back, eyes still locked on him like a shadow waiting for the sun to fall. Then he turned. Walked out the door. Didn’t slam it.

Didn’t look back. He made it halfway down the stairs before he stopped, hand resting on the metal rail.

And that’s when it hit him. He hadn’t done this for Bonten.

He hadn’t done it to maintain power, or fear, or respect. He’d done it because someone smiled at him with a bruised face and still sat beside him at the piano.

Because she had let him listen. Because she never asked him for anything—but still gave him peace in return.

So he stood there in the stairwell, the concrete cold beneath his boots, and whispered to himself—

“…Why did I care?”

He didn’t know the answer. But he knew he’d do it again. Without hesitation.

__________________________________________________

You didn’t remember how it started. You just remembered the knock.

The same knock. The one that made your skin tighten, your spine stiffen, your hands freeze mid-motion over your tea cup.

You hadn’t answered. But the lock gave out after the third slam.

He was drunk again. Drunker than before. And louder.

His fists were the first things you saw before you even registered his voice. The world became a blur of bruised noise and splintered light.

You tried to scream once. Only once.

Then you were running. Or stumbling. Or maybe just falling forward.

Blood in your mouth. Your ribs screaming. Your vision swimming through tears and sirens in her head that never reached the streets.

You didn’t even know where you were going.

You just ran.

Shoes skidding on the sidewalk. Hands catching on cold stone walls as the world tilted around you.

Then—just ahead— A dark car. Two silhouettes. One leaned casually against the hood, cigarette between his lips.

The other stood still, almost statuesque, pale hair glinting faintly under the streetlamp. You didn’t think.

Didn’t stop. You made it three steps before your knees gave out.

And then—arms. Strong ones. Fast. Familiar. Not cruel. Not cold.

“Hey—hey—!” Sanzu’s voice, rough with shock. Mikey caught you before you hit the ground. You barely saw his face. Just light hair. Tight jaw. The glint of rage crawling up his throat like smoke.

Blood dripped from your lip onto his coat. You clung to his shirt like it was the last solid thing on Earth.

“Manjiro,” she whispered. Your voice was so small it sounded like someone else.

His arms tightened. Then his voice, low, steady—quiet in a way that terrified more than screaming ever could.

“Sanzu.” A beat.

“Find him.” Sanzu didn’t hesitate.

“Leave no trace,” Mikey added, still holding her, eyes locked on the middle distance like he could already see the man bleeding.

Sanzu was already dialing as he walked away. “Consider it done.” You tried to lift her head, to speak, to explain—but Mikey shook his gently.

“Don’t talk.”

“I—he said—he thought—”

“I know.” He reached up, touched your cheek. His hand trembled just barely. “He thought I was your boyfriend, didn’t he?”

You gave the smallest nod. Mikey didn’t blink.

“Let him keep thinking that. Right to the end.” Your eyes finally closed.

Not from fear this time. But because, for the first time in a long time, you felt safe enough to let go. And in Mikey’s arms, you let the pain settle.

Because if there was one person who could carry it now—

—it was him.

___________________________________________________________________________

You woke slowly.

The kind of slow that made you question if she was really awake at all—if the pain was memory or present. If the silence was safety or something worse.

Then the rib pulsed. Sharp. Deep. And you knew you were still alive. The ceiling above you was unfamiliar—white, high, clinical.

But the room was quiet. Too quiet to be a hospital.

Her eyes moved—just barely—and landed on him.

Manjiro.

Sitting beside the bed in a black chair, coat folded over his lap, posture slouched but alert. He looked like he hadn’t slept. Or maybe hadn’t even moved since she was brought in.

He didn’t look surprised to see her awake. He just leaned forward slightly.

“You’re safe,” he said, softly. Your mouth felt dry. “Where...?”

“Bonten facility. Secure. No one gets in without me knowing.” A pause. “You’ve got two broken ribs. Split lip. Swelling around the eye and shoulder. They said it’ll hurt like hell for a while.”

You winced, slowly shifting her arm. “They were right.” He smiled a little at that.

Not much. But enough. “Don’t try to move. Just rest.”

Your eyes didn’t leave his face. “You stayed?”

Mikey didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned back slightly, arms folding over his chest.

“I did.” A long beat passed.

Then your voice, quieter: “Is he…?” Mikey’s gaze didn’t flicker.

“He won’t come back. Ever.” You closed her eyes. One tear slipped out before you could stop it.

“Why?” she asked. “Why would you do that for me?” His voice came low. Rough.

“I don’t know yet.” That honesty made something in your chest twist.

But not in fear. In understanding. They were both haunted by things they didn’t have words for. Mikey stood then, gently adjusting the blanket over you.

You watched him, too tired to speak again. But when he turned to leave, your hand reached out—shaky, pale fingers wrapping weakly around his sleeve.

“Don’t go yet,” you whispered.

He looked down at you. And for the first time, maybe even to himself

—he didn’t want to.

So he sat.

And the room, bruised in silence, breathed with them both.

_________________________________________________________

The room is still.

No machines beep. No footsteps echo down sterile halls. Just the distant hum of the city outside, softened by thick windows and reinforced walls. Mikey sits beside you, his fingers lightly laced together in his lap. He hasn't said anything since you asked him to stay.

But he hasn't moved either. You're the first to speak again—barely above a whisper.

“I named her Hikari.”

He turns his head slowly, eyes meeting yours. “She didn’t even get to open her eyes,” you say, voice steady now. “But I wanted her to have a name. Something soft. Something… warm.”

Mikey doesn’t speak, but something in his gaze shifts. You swallow.

“My ex never wanted to talk about her. He said it was easier to forget. But I didn’t want to forget. I wanted to remember the little heartbeat they let me hear… just once.”

A pause. Then, softer: “Do you think it’s stupid? To still talk about her like that?”

Mikey’s voice is hoarse.

“No.”

You look at him. He’s quiet for a moment, then says, “I had a brother. And a sister.”

The words feel like old bones being dug up from deep ground. “She was younger. Emma. He was older—Shinichiro. Both gone.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “I didn’t know…” “You’re not supposed to,” he says. “I don’t talk about them.”

“Why tell me?” He looks down at his hands, then back at you.

“Because I think you’re the first person in a long time who’d understand what it feels like… to love someone who’s gone and still carry them every day.”

Your chest tightens, not with pain this time, but with something quieter. Something closer to understanding.

You reach for his hand—not forcefully, not even fully. Just a light brush of your fingers.

He lets you. Your hands sit beside each other on the blanket. Not tangled. Not held.

Just there. Two people who have both lost something too big for words. And somehow, in that stillness, it feels like the first real step forward.

“You’ll stay here.” Mikey’s voice is final.

You sit up in bed, slowly, one arm still pressed to your side where the bruises bloom beneath your skin.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you say.

He doesn’t even blink. “You’re not.”

It’s the way he says it—like it isn’t up for discussion. Like protecting you is as natural to him now as breathing. You don’t fight it. You nod, small and quiet, and he stands to leave. But just before the door clicks shut behind him, you hear him pause.

“You’ll meet them soon. The others.”

“…The others?” He glances over his shoulder. His expression unreadable. “They’re family. Of a sort. But not like yours.”

Then he’s gone. It starts slowly.

First, Takeomi Akashi. Polite, sharp-eyed, skeptical. He brings you a cup of tea one morning—says it’s from Mikey, but doesn’t hide the way he watches you as you sip it.

“You play piano?” he asks eventually, arms crossed.

“Sometimes.”

“Hm.” His brow twitches. “Haven’t seen Mikey this still in weeks.”

He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to.

__________________________________________________

Then Ran Haitani swaggered in one afternoon, twirling his signature baton, grinning like he already knew everything about you before you even said hello.

“So you’re the one,” he said, voice smooth like wine. “Didn’t think you were real.”

“I am.”

He chuckled, then leaned closer across the table where you sat. “Be careful, pretty girl. Our boss doesn’t let people in. And if he’s letting you in, that means something’s shifting.”

Behind him, Rindou stood quiet, frowning.

“Ran,” he muttered, “cut it out.”

“I’m just saying hi.”

“You’re poking a sleeping lion.”

Ran winked at you. “A lion in love is still dangerous, sweetheart.”

You didn’t ask what that meant.

But later, when you saw Mikey standing in the courtyard alone, coat fluttering gently in the breeze, you realized something:

They weren’t afraid for you.

They were afraid of what you meant to him. Because Mikey was changing.

He was softer with you.

But the softness didn’t make him any less terrifying.

It just made him more human. And for men like Bonten’s top dogs, that was scarier than anything else.

The rooftop was surprisingly quiet for a Bonten building.

You sat on a bench by the edge, bundled in a borrowed hoodie and breathing in the dusk. Your ribs still ached, but the air felt clean up here. Easier to take in. Footsteps approached behind you—soft but confident.

You didn’t turn right away.

You already knew who it was.

“Didn’t think you’d be out here alone,” Sanzu said, his voice a little rough from a recent smoke.

“I needed air.”

He came to stand beside you, eyes sweeping across the skyline, pink hair glowing faintly in the fading sun.

“You healing alright?”

You nodded.

“Good.” He paused. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Your brows drew together. “I didn’t ask to be.”

He let out a short laugh. “No. But you’re still here. And he wants you to be.” You looked at him now, more directly.

Sanzu wasn’t grinning the way he usually did. There was no teasing glint. Just a quiet seriousness, sharp as broken glass.

“You don’t like me,” you said.

“I don’t know you.” He flicked his lighter open. “That’s the problem.”

You didn’t answer.

Sanzu inhaled his cigarette deeply, then let the smoke drift out slow. “Mikey hasn’t looked at someone like this in years. Not since… well. Doesn’t matter. The point is, you’ve got his attention. And that’s not easy to come by.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“I didn’t say it was.” He paused. “But it means something.”

You watched him, careful.

“Why are you really out here, Sanzu?”

He met your eyes.

“I wanted to see what kind of girl gets past the walls Mikey’s built with bodies.”

The air stretched thin between you.

“I didn’t try to,” you said softly. “He just… sat beside me one day.”

Sanzu laughed, bitter and brief. “Yeah. That sounds like him.”

A beat.

Then, quieter: “Just… don’t hurt him.”

You blinked.

It was the first honest thing he’d said all evening.

“I’ve seen what he becomes when he breaks,” Sanzu muttered, voice lower now. “It’s not something you ever want to be near.” He flicked the ash from his cigarette and turned away, already heading for the stairwell.

But just before he disappeared, he looked back over his shoulder.

“Still. He chose you.”

Then he was gone.

Leaving you in the fading light.

And for the first time since you arrived, you wondered just how deep this went.

And what it would cost to stay.

____________________________________________________

Later that night, you were back in your room.

The lights were dim, the air warm, and someone had left a new pair of slippers beside the bed. You sat by the window, knees tucked up carefully to avoid the ache in your ribs, watching the city lights flicker.

The door opened with barely a sound.

You didn’t turn.

You knew it was him. Mikey stepped inside, wordless, and crossed the room until he stood a few feet away. He didn’t sit. Just watched you for a long moment in silence.

Then: “Sanzu talked to you.”

You nodded once. “What did he say?” You looked up at him.

“That I shouldn’t hurt you.”

Mikey's jaw shifted.

He came a little closer, resting a hand on the wall near your shoulder—but he didn’t touch you. Not yet. His presence felt heavier tonight. Like something coiled too tightly beneath his skin.

“And will you?” he asked.

You blinked. “Hurt you?”

A small shrug. “People do.”

You tilted your head, studying him in the low light.

“I don’t want to.” Mikey’s eyes dropped to your bandaged wrist. Then your cheek.

You watched something flicker there—regret, maybe. Or restraint.

“You stayed,” you said softly. “I did.”

“You protect me.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

He hesitated.

Not because he didn’t have an answer—

—but because he didn’t know which one was true.

So many reasons ran through his mind:

• Because no one protected Emma.

• Because you looked at him like a person, not a king or a monster.

• Because he couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else holding your pain.

But all he said was:

“I don’t know.” You smiled, small and sad.

“That’s okay.”

He sat down finally, beside you, knees close but not touching.

Outside, the city breathed on. And for the first time, Mikey realized:

He didn’t need a reason to stay. He just wanted to.

Even if he couldn’t say the word for what this was—

—he was already too deep to walk away.

The hallway was quiet when you stepped out of your room.

Mikey stood outside, leaning against the wall, arms folded—like he had no intention of leaving. “I’m not tired,” you said, voice low.

He looked at you.

Then glanced at the clock.

“It’s nearly 2 a.m.”

“Does Bonten have a curfew?” He gave the faintest smile. “You’ll get in trouble.”

You shrugged, your bandaged arms still healing. “Not if I’m with you.”

That made him blink.

Then he pushed off the wall with a quiet sigh. “Come on, then.”

You walked in silence for a while—through back alleys and side streets, the city sleeping all around you. Everything was wet from an earlier drizzle. Pavement shining. Neon lights dripping reflections in puddles. You inhaled deeply, your breath misting. “Smells like rain.”

“It’s not supposed to storm again tonight.”

You grinned at him. “You’re very confident for someone without an umbrella.”

He gave you a side glance.

And then—as if summoned by your smile—the clouds broke open again.

Soft at first. Then heavier. Then pouring.

You laughed and tilted your head back, letting it soak through your hoodie. “I knew it.” Mikey blinked at you, standing very still, like the rain was some foreign concept.

“Come on,” you said, stepping toward him.

“What are you doing?”

You grabbed his hand, warm despite the chill. “Dance with me.”

He looked at you like you’d lost your mind.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t dance.”

“Then this is a perfect time to start.”

He didn’t move.

You didn’t let go. You just began to sway in the rain, slow and silly, your grip light on his.

The street around you shimmered. Water dripped from his white hair, from the tip of your nose.

“Don’t think about it,” you whispered. “Just feel it.” Mikey stood there, frozen.

Then—He took one step closer.

Just enough for you to wrap his other hand in yours.

You pulled gently, guiding him.

He let you. His movements were stiff. Hesitant.

But your smile didn’t waver.

You laughed, spinning once under his arm before bumping into his chest.

He caught you, barely.

And something in him cracked. The tiniest smile touched his lips—so faint it could’ve been imagined.

But it was real.

You looked up at him, soaked and glowing and so alive.

And for a moment, the storm didn’t matter. The blood, the pain, the past—it was all gone.

There was just you, dancing in the rain like the world hadn’t broken you both.

And Mikey—

For the first time in years—

—felt peace.

He didn’t say it.

He wouldn’t even let himself think the word.

But deep down, something inside him whispered:

I love her like this.

________________________________________________________

The rain slowed.

Your hair clung to your face. Your chest rose with soft breaths.

You looked up at him like you had all the time in the world.

“Come on,” you whispered, voice gentle now, worn from the cold. “Let’s go back before we catch something.” He nodded.

Didn’t trust himself to speak.

You reached for his hand again—not to pull him, this time, but just to hold it.

And he let you.

As you walked back through the empty streets, water dripping from your clothes and silence between you, Mikey’s mind didn’t spiral like it usually did. He just thought:

If this is what it means to live... I forgot. And maybe—

Just maybe—

You could remind him again.

_____________________________________________

The door clicked shut behind you, soft and final.

Your wet footsteps echoed against the polished tile floor of the Bonten guest wing. Everything smelled faintly like cold rain and something green blooming too late in the season.

You let go of his hand first.

Your fingers had gone pink from the cold.

“Bathroom’s there,” Mikey murmured, nodding toward the small adjoining room.

“You go first,” you offered.

He glanced at you. Your hair was soaked, hoodie clinging to you, water dripping gently onto the floor.

“You’ll freeze.”

“So will you.”

He sighed through his nose and peeled off the outer layer of his jacket. He handed it to you. “At least get out of that.”

You took it with quiet thanks and stepped away to change, leaving him alone with the sound of rain still whispering on the window.

When you came back out in one of the oversized Bonten T-shirts, Mikey had already changed—white tee, dry sweats, barefoot. Hair towel-dried but still sticking to his forehead a little.

He looked… human.

“You have extra towels?” you asked softly.

He nodded and handed you one without a word.

You towel-dried your hair sitting cross-legged on the bed, moving slowly so your ribs wouldn’t ache. Mikey sat across from you in the chair by the window, arms loosely draped over his knees.

It was quiet again. Comfortable. For once, not heavy.

“Thank you,” you said after a while, eyes flicking to his.

“For what?”

“For going with me.”

He shrugged, but his eyes didn’t leave your face.

“It was… the first time I’ve danced since I was a kid.”

Mikey let that settle.

And then said, almost too quietly, “You smiled like you weren’t hurting.”

You stilled.

“Even if just for a second,” he added.

You looked down at your hands. “Isn’t that the point? To forget long enough to breathe again?”

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

But his gaze never left you.

He was trying to memorize that look on you—half-wet hair, bruises fading, warmth returning to your skin.

You looked up again and caught him staring.

A soft smile curled your lips. “What?”

He blinked once. Then, a beat later, “Nothing.”

But you knew.

You both did.

And when you stood to hang the towel by the bathroom door, brushing past him, he caught the faintest scent of your skin. Clean, rain-soaked, soft.

It stayed with him long after the door clicked shut behind you again.

______________________________________________

Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows, golden and slow.

The rain from last night had left everything washed and silent.

You padded barefoot into the kitchen of the Bonten safehouse wing, wrapped in one of the oversized hoodies Mikey had given you. Your bruises were fading. The ache in your ribs was still there, but dull now.

Mikey was already there.

Sitting on the couch, hair still damp from the shower, barefoot, holding a cup of coffee with both hands like he needed it to stay tethered to this world.

You liked seeing him like this.

Real. Unarmored.

“You didn’t sleep much,” you said gently, approaching.

He didn’t look at you, but his voice was softer than usual. “Didn’t want to.”

You tilted your head. “Bad dreams?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

You set a cup of tea on the table in front of him and sat nearby. Not too close. Just enough.

He glanced at it, then at you. “That for me?”

You gave him a quiet smile. “No, I brought it for the ghost that lives in your trauma.”

A pause. Then—

A small breath of a laugh from Mikey. Almost too quiet to hear.

He reached for the tea.

______________________________________________________

You didn’t talk much that morning.

You didn’t need to.

You leaned your head back, closed your eyes in the sun. He sat beside you, quiet, but not distant.

For once, nothing was heavy.

Not grief.

Not guilt.

Just the stillness of morning, and the soft sound of your breathing.

Later, you walked into the common area to find Sanzu and Rindou arguing over something pointless.

“Morning,” you said, moving past them to grab water.

Sanzu glanced over, raising a brow. “Look who’s comfortable.”

You raised your water bottle in a mock toast. “Your couch is softer than my last apartment. I’m not complaining.”

Rindou smirked. “You’re the first person I’ve seen Mikey tolerate this long in years.”

“That’s because I don’t ask him to talk,” you replied casually.

Sanzu’s grin sharpened. “He doesn’t just tolerate you, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Oh, we’re saying it.”

Kokonoi passed by then, sipping coffee, and added, “He skipped two meetings just to bring you soup when you were knocked out. You think he does that for us?”

“Rindou once had a bullet wound and Mikey told him to walk it off,” Sanzu said helpfully.

Rindou nodded in solemn agreement.

You laughed softly, sipping your water. “Well, maybe I’m just special.”

“You are,” came a quiet voice from behind.

You all turned.

Mikey had walked in, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. But his eyes were on you.

You blinked. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

“You weren’t supposed to.”

And then, like it was nothing, he walked to your side and gently touched your back as he passed, steering you toward the hallway.

Sanzu gave a low whistle behind you.

But Mikey didn’t look back.

_____________________________________________

The morning had barely settled when you found Mikey in one of the smaller briefing rooms—alone, seated at the table with a file open in front of him, a cup of untouched coffee going cold beside his hand.

He looked up when you entered.

“You busy?” you asked.

He shook his head.

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you. “Didn’t see you at breakfast.”

“Didn’t feel like it.”

There was something in his voice—an edge, quiet and tired.

You didn’t push.

Just walked to the other side of the table and looked down at the open file.

A photo paper-clipped to the top—some middle-aged executive in a tailored suit, eyes that screamed entitlement.

You raised an eyebrow. “Client?”

“Investor.”

“Looks punchable.”

A small smirk pulled at the corner of Mikey’s mouth.

“You’re not wrong,” he murmured. Then he paused. “I want you in the room.”

You blinked. “What?”

He met your eyes, steady now. “The client—he likes… distractions. Pretty women. If we walk in without one, we lose the upper hand.”

“So I’m bait?”

He was quiet.

Your voice softened, though. “It’s okay, Manjiro. I just want to hear you say it honestly.”

He stared for a second too long.

Then: “You’re not bait. You’re leverage.”

You tilted your head. “And what if he’s disrespectful?”

“I’ll handle it.”

Your lips curved. “Will you stay calm?”

“No.”

That made you laugh.

A quiet sound that cut through the tension between you.

You reached out and slid the folder closer, scanning the contents. “Fine. I’ll go.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

You looked up again. “But I want to.”

He looked at you for a long beat. “Why?”

“Because you asked,” you said simply. “And that’s rare.”

That silenced him.

The air felt heavier now, but not in a bad way. More like something had shifted—finally.

You stood, brushing your fingers lightly along the edge of the table. “When do we leave?”

“Two hours.”

You nodded. “Then I’ll go look dangerous.”

You turned to leave, but paused at the door.

“Hey, Manjiro?”

He glanced up.

“Don’t worry. If he crosses a line, I’ll make you look calm.”

Then you walked out, leaving him alone with your words—and the way they settled deep, right under his ribs.

______________________________________________

Two hours later, you were ready.

You had chosen an outfit simple enough to blend in, yet sharp enough to make your presence undeniable: a sleek black dress, fitted perfectly but not too tight, modest but somehow still daring in its simplicity. The colors complimented you—cool tones that made your skin glow. Your hair was loosely pinned back, a few stray curls falling delicately around your face.

But it wasn’t just the outfit.

It was how you moved. How you held yourself, like you already knew the game and the rules—and you weren’t afraid of playing.

When Mikey saw you, his chest tightened without him understanding why. You weren’t wearing anything special, nothing that screamed attention. Yet you had the kind of quiet grace that drew every eye in the room.

And, god, the way you stood beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world. No fear. No hesitation.

And that made him…

…unsettled.

Mikey stood still for a moment, his gaze flicking over you, a little too intense for anyone to notice. But his heart had started to beat faster. Something in him wanted to keep you away from the eyes that had already begun to linger on you—on the curve of your neck, the way your dress fell just so, the way you carried yourself like you didn’t even know how beautiful you were.

But Mikey knew.

And for a split second, it made him uneasy.

He could see it in the others’ eyes, too.

Sanzu raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed, but also… a little too interested.

Rindou smirked like he knew exactly how this would play out.

Kokonoi, ever the strategist, didn’t say anything—but the flicker of approval in his gaze told Mikey all he needed to know.

Mikey clenched his jaw.

You had no idea the storm you were about to walk into.

___________________________________________________

When the door opened and you walked toward the car, Mikey’s hand instinctively reached for you, fingers brushing your wrist before his arm slipped around your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer. It was casual, almost like it was nothing, but the message was clear.

You didn’t say anything—didn’t need to. The way you looked up at him was the only response he needed. Your lips barely moved when you spoke.

“Got my back?” you asked, voice soft but steady.

Mikey’s eyes narrowed slightly, but there was something in the way he looked at you now. Something possessive. Almost protective.

“Always,” he muttered under his breath.

He didn’t know why he said it.

But something inside of him stirred at the idea of someone else looking at you the way they did.

_________________________________________________________

As you stepped out into the crisp, cool air of the city, the car waiting for you down the street, the others flanking you like shadows, Mikey’s grip on your waist didn’t loosen.

Sanzu raised an eyebrow. “You really don’t want anyone looking at her, huh?”

Mikey didn’t answer.

Instead, he made sure you were close enough, just far enough from the others, but not too far to be out of reach. His hand on you was almost an anchor—something to hold him down, keep the simmering storm inside from exploding.

You smiled up at him, that soft, knowing smile.

And Mikey’s heart did something strange.

He didn’t know what it was.

But whatever it was… he didn’t mind it.

When you reached the car, Mikey opened the door for you, never once letting you out of his hold. He leaned in slightly, voice low.

“I’ll take care of everything. Just stay close.”

Your smile didn’t waver. “I trust you.”

That was all.

______________________________________________________

The car ride felt longer than it should have.

Mikey sat next to you, his arm resting along the back of the seat, just close enough to you that he could feel the heat from your body. The tension between you was subtle, but it clung to the air like static electricity, making everything feel a little too real.

He could tell you noticed.

You weren’t saying much, just gazing out the window, your fingers absentmindedly brushing over the hem of your dress. He tried to focus on the upcoming meeting, trying to steel himself for the inevitable—discussions, negotiations, possible manipulation—but his thoughts kept slipping back to you.

The way your hair fell softly around your face. The curve of your neck. The way you’d stood in the room earlier, unafraid, unfazed by the glances that were being thrown your way.

You were too calm.

Too composed. Too beautiful.

And that made Mikey uneasy in a way he wasn’t used to.

His eyes flicked to you again, lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

“Why are you so quiet?” you asked, your voice pulling him out of his thoughts.

Mikey shifted uncomfortably, turning his head to look at you more fully. “Just thinking.”

You didn’t ask him what about.

But you tilted your head, eyes soft, watching him.

The silence in the car felt heavy. Too heavy.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared out the window, trying to shake the weight in his chest.

It wasn’t just the client.

It was you.

And he didn’t know why it bothered him so much.

But when he caught himself stealing glances at you again, his stomach tightened.

Don’t think about it.

Don’t think about how she makes you feel.

“Are you nervous?” you asked quietly, your voice like a thread pulling at the edge of his thoughts.

He blinked, surprised by the question.

“Nervous?” Mikey scoffed. “No.”

But the way he said it was a little too fast. A little too defensive.

You smiled faintly, almost knowingly.

“You’re lying,” you murmured.

He glanced at you again, but there was something in your expression now. A quiet understanding. A softness that made the whole world feel like it was just the two of you, stuck in this little bubble in the backseat.

“I’m not nervous,” Mikey repeated, a little more firmly this time.

But something inside of him wasn’t convinced.

And he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe it wasn’t the client he was worried about at all.

The car continued down the quiet streets, the only sound the hum of the engine and the distant chatter of the radio. Mikey was half-tempted to reach out and pull you closer, but he didn’t.

Instead, he kept his hand resting on the armrest, as if he could just will his mind to focus.

But it wasn’t working.

His thoughts wandered again, back to the meeting. The way the client had looked at you—like you were some kind of object.

Mikey clenched his fist.

He couldn’t stand it.

Every time that guy looked at you like that, Mikey’s pulse quickened. It was possessiveness, pure and simple, and he knew it. But what was worse was that he wasn’t just angry at the client. He was angry at himself.

Because he wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

He wasn’t supposed to care about you like this.

And the fact that he did?

It was… uncomfortable.

But that wasn’t the only thing.

It was the way you trusted him. The way you always looked at him like he was more than just the man in charge, more than just Bonten’s leader.

You saw him in a way no one else did. And that… that made him feel something he couldn’t put into words.

Your smile, the way you spoke, the quiet strength in your voice—it was like nothing else in his life mattered when you were around. You made him feel human, not just the monster everyone thought he was.

And that was the scariest part.

He didn’t know how to handle it.

____________________________________________________

As the car pulled closer to the meeting location, Mikey glanced at you again, his voice quiet and unsure.

“Just… stick with me, okay? Don’t let them get to you.”

You nodded, the same soft smile on your lips. “I’ll be fine.”

He looked at you, his heart beating faster again.

But this time, he didn’t fight it.

As the car came to a stop in front of the building, Mikey opened the door for you, holding out his hand. But before you could take it, he lingered, his eyes searching yours. For a second, there was a silent understanding between you.

Something unspoken, but strong.

And when you placed your hand in his, his fingers tightened just a little too much.

__________________________________________________

The meeting room was all glass and ego.

Polished floors, leather seats, a long table already set with water bottles and empty contracts waiting to be signed. The client—Hirano—stood from his seat as you entered, his suit perfectly tailored, his smile too sharp, too knowing.

His gaze landed on you the moment you stepped inside.

And it lingered.

“Ah,” Hirano said smoothly, stepping forward to shake Mikey’s hand. “I see you brought… entertainment.”

Your expression didn’t shift, but Mikey caught the slight tension in your jaw. He saw it. Felt it.

Sanzu moved to your side instantly, face unreadable, but his eyes were already assessing Hirano like a threat.

Mikey kept his face blank. “She’s here because I want her here.”

Hirano chuckled. “I didn’t realize Bonten had started mixing business with pleasure.”

You finally spoke, your voice calm but edged in iron. “That’s a dangerous assumption.”

The client blinked at you, clearly not expecting you to speak.

“I’m not part of the deal,” you continued, stepping forward with all the quiet confidence in the world. “So if you’re only signing because of how I look, maybe we should reconsider the terms.”

The room went still for a moment.

Rindou raised his eyebrows slightly, clearly impressed. Kokonoi just sat back, watching with quiet amusement.

But Mikey?

He watched you like you were something untouchable.

Unshakable.

The client gave a fake smile. “She’s feisty.”

Mikey’s voice was low and sharp. “You don’t get to talk about her.”

Hirano hesitated. “It’s just business—”

“No,” Mikey interrupted, stepping forward. His tone didn’t rise, but the weight of it changed the air in the room.

“She’s mine.”

Everyone froze.

Even you.

It wasn’t a planned declaration. It just slipped out. Heavy. Honest. Unavoidable.

Hirano blinked. “Yours?”

Mikey’s hand slid around your waist again, not just for show this time. Not to protect a business move or intimidate a rival. It was his way of drawing a line. Not between you and the client.

But between himself—and his own denial.

“Yes,” Mikey said again, steady now. “So if you want to finish this deal, you’ll keep your eyes—and your mouth—off her.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

But Hirano didn’t argue.

He just sat down, suddenly reminded that Bonten’s leader wasn’t just a ghost in a white suit—he was a storm waiting to break.

______________________________________________________

Later, as you walked out of the building, you didn’t say a word about it. Not the client. Not the way Mikey’s hand had never left your waist. Not the word he’d used.

Mine.

But as you reached the car, you glanced up at him.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Mikey met your eyes.

“I know.”

But he didn’t let go.

______________________________________________________

The city lights spill through the tall windows of Bonten’s penthouse, casting soft gold across the floor as you pad barefoot across the cool marble. The meeting is over, the tension long gone—but one word still hangs between you like a ghost in the room.

Mine.

He hasn’t brought it up since.

Neither have you.

But it follows you anyway—through dinner, through silence, through the way he lingers behind you when you make tea, the way his gaze doesn’t stray far. Something has shifted—and you can feel it in your chest like gravity.

Mikey sits on the wide couch, a loose shirt hanging off his frame, white hair messy from the wind. He looks… tired. But more than that, he looks conflicted.

You stand a few steps away, sipping from your cup, studying him.

“You meant it, didn’t you?” you ask quietly.

His head turns slowly toward you. No confusion in his eyes. Just… hesitation.

He doesn’t answer.

You take another step closer, setting your cup down on the table.

“What you said back there,” you continue, voice low. “When you told him I was yours.”

Still, silence.

But something flickers in his face—vulnerability, almost too raw to look at.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight. “I didn’t plan to say that,” he mutters. “It just… came out.”

You don’t push. You just wait.

He exhales, then leans back again, eyes unfocused.

“I’ve been trying not to feel anything. For a long time. It’s easier that way. Safer.”

His voice cracks just a little.

“But with you…” he swallows, “I feel things I don’t understand. You make me forget how broken I am. And that’s terrifying.”

You move closer, your knees brushing his as you sit beside him.

“And what do you feel now?” you ask, gently, carefully.

Mikey turns his head slowly, meeting your gaze.

“I want you close,” he says softly. “I want you safe. I want to hear you laugh, even if I don’t deserve to. I want you to stay. And that scares the hell out of me.”

You don’t say anything at first.

You just reach up, hand brushing against his cheek, thumb grazing his skin. His eyes flutter shut at the touch—like it grounds him.

“You don’t have to deserve me, Mikey,” you say with a small, warm smile. “Just be honest with me. With yourself.”

He opens his eyes again, and for the first time, you see it—clarity. Something settling behind his tired expression. Something like peace.

He reaches out slowly, pulling you in, one arm wrapping around your back until you’re tucked against his side, your head on his shoulder, your fingers still resting on his chest.

“I’m trying,” he whispers.

“I know,” you reply. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

__________________________________________________________

Your room is dimly lit, the only light coming from the window where the city glows like stars that have fallen too far.

You walk in first, slow and thoughtful, your hand still linked with Mikey’s. He doesn’t let go—not once—as if part of him fears that if he loosens his grip, you might fade from him again.

You turn to face him once you’re inside, your eyes searching his.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

He gives a faint nod, stepping closer. “Yeah… I just don’t want to be alone tonight.”

“You’re not.”

That’s all it takes.

You open your arms, and he moves into them instinctively. You lie down on the bed, your bodies curving to fit, like you’ve been doing this for years. Your head nestled against his chest, one of his arms cradling your waist. The other finds your hand, fingers curling around his.

Silence stretches between you—but it isn’t empty. It’s full.

His heart beats steadily beneath your cheek, slower than you expected. Calm. Or maybe… calm because you’re there.

Mikey presses his forehead to your hair. “You’re warm.”

You smile. “So are you.”

He laughs, just a breath of sound.

You stay like that for a while. The weight of the night slips off you both, piece by piece, replaced by something quieter. Something that feels like… healing.

Then you tilt your head up, looking at him.

“Can I kiss you?” you ask.

His eyes widen, just a little. Like the question startles him.

But he nods, slow. “Yeah.”

You lean in gently, your hand resting on his chest as your lips find his. It’s soft—uncertain at first, searching. But he responds quickly, like he’s been holding back for too long. His fingers slide into your hair, pulling you closer as your mouths move together, slow and warm and full of everything you haven’t said.

When you part, foreheads touching, neither of you speaks.

He opens his eyes.

You’re smiling.

And for the first time in years, Mikey smiles back without even realizing it.

The kiss deepens in the silence, unhurried and full of tension finally released.

Your fingers move gently through his hair—so soft under your touch—and Mikey lets out the quietest sound against your lips, one he doesn’t even mean to make. Like he’s surprised by how good it feels to be touched with no expectations. No fear.

Just… held.

You shift, laying halfway over him now, your leg brushing against his, your hand resting lightly on the side of his neck as your mouths meet again—slower this time. Lingering. As if you’re trying to memorize each other, piece by piece.

When you pause, you stay close, eyes half-lidded, lips parted slightly.

Mikey’s fingers find your waist, holding you steady—not to pull you closer, not to control, but just… to feel you’re real.

His voice is barely above a whisper. “This doesn’t feel like something I should have.”

You trace your thumb across his cheek. “But you do. I’m right here.”

He looks at you for a long time. Not your face—not exactly. He’s looking at something behind it. Past it. Like he’s trying to figure out how someone like you could exist in his world. In his arms.

“I’m scared I’ll ruin it,” he says. Quiet. Raw.

You lean down, pressing a kiss just beneath his eye. Then to his jaw. Then back to his lips.

“Then we’ll go slow,” you whisper between kisses. “And we’ll take care of each other.”

His hands move again, one splaying across your back, the other rising to tangle in your hair as your kisses grow slower, deeper. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just present.

Your body molds to his like a puzzle piece that has always been missing, and for the first time, Mikey doesn’t feel like something broken. He feels wanted. Held. Loved, even if you haven’t said it out loud yet.

And maybe he isn’t ready to say it either.

But he feels it.

Every second your mouth touches his. Every breath you give him in return. Every time you whisper his name like it means something.

He presses his forehead to yours, your breaths mingling in the small space between.

“Stay with me tonight,” he says, almost inaudible. “Just like this.”

You don’t even hesitate. “Always.”

And you hold each other in the dark, hearts open, bodies close, nothing between you but soft fabric and the comfort you never thought you’d deserve.

_____________________________________________________

The halls of Bonten headquarters fall silent when you walk through.

You wear no crown, no bloodstained ring, no weapon at your hip.

You don’t need any of it.

You are Lady Y/N, wife of the Boss himself, and the heart behind Bonten’s iron machinery. What Mikey rules with fire and silence, you rule with presence. Steady. Watchful. Untouchable.

A few lieutenants bow their heads as you pass. Others simply step aside, knowing better than to get in your way. Your name doesn’t need to be shouted. It moves in whispers and deference, in the way even Sanzu shuts up when you raise an eyebrow.

You get the message just after breakfast:

Come to the strategy room. Bring the coffee you make—not the staff’s crap. – M.

You already know what this is.

When you arrive, it’s all exactly as expected: Mikey lounging like a bored cat at the head of the room, his lieutenants in their usual spots, and a hot cup of coffee waiting in your hand.

The room quiets as you enter.

“My Lady,” Kokonoi greets with a nod, polite as always.

“Looking radiant, as usual,” Ran drawls, only half joking.

Rindou gives you a quiet “Good morning.”

And Sanzu—messy as ever, sprawled in his chair—just gives you a wolfish grin. “Guess the boss couldn’t stand another five minutes without you.”

Mikey doesn’t even pretend to deny it.

He holds out his hand. “Sit.”

You roll your eyes, but walk to him anyway, handing him the coffee before sitting neatly at his side—your seat now, unofficial but permanent. The others don’t dare question it.

Mikey takes a slow sip, then turns toward you, his voice softer than anyone else ever hears it.

“You free today?”

Your brow lifts. “Did you call me here for a meeting or a date?”

“Yes,” he says simply.

The men around the table smirk but stay quiet. They know better than to mock the bond between you—because behind Mikey’s sharp silences and blank stares, you’re the only one who can bring a glimmer of life back to his expression.

You cross one leg over the other and turn slightly toward him. “You know calling Lady Y/N into meetings just to keep yourself entertained is technically misuse of executive time, right?”

He leans closer. “I like misusing time when it comes to you.”

You blink. Once. Then smile.

And the entire room—murderers, strategists, men who’ve burned empires to the ground—knows: you own him.

But more than that…

You earned it.

[selkiefinalist]

truly what a week when a sam girard first goal of the season ot winner is going to bring me to tears like yes the narrative and yes i love him but also what emotions perchance need additional outlet at this particular place and time

[n0vazsq]

Forever mine? Forever yours | CL16 x Reader

pairing . . . charles leclerc x gf!reader

summary . . . When you and Charles have a fight, you want nothing more than his forgiveness

request . . . no!

word count . . . 884

warnings . . . just a bit of angst that turns into fluff!

faceclaim . . . N/A

alexavia yaps . . . was listenting to like love // break up songs while writing this and legit wanted to cry like kms

. . . The streets of Monaco were unusually quiet that night, the hum of distant cars replaced by the echo of footsteps against cobblestone. The city lights cast long shadows, stretching like ghosts between the narrow alleys.

Charles walked ahead of you, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, shoulders tense. The silence between you was heavy, filled with the reminders of words you hadn’t meant to say, things you both couldn’t take back.

The fight had started small, like it always did. You had only asked about the upcoming race, about his late nights at the simulator, about why he was pushing so hard. It had spiraled from there. Frustration simmering just beneath the surface, boiling over into harsh words and defensive silence.

Now, you followed a few steps behind, heart heavy, each breath tight in your chest. You wanted to reach out, to bridge the gap between you, but the distance felt overwhelming. Charles had always been intense, carrying the weight of expectations like a second skin. But tonight, he seemed…fragile, like a wire stretched too thin.

He stopped suddenly by the marina, the dark water stretching endlessly before you. The wind carried the scent of salt, cool against your skin. He didn’t turn around, didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, staring out at the horizon, hands clenched at his sides.

"You think I don’t care enough?" His voice was quiet, but the tone is his voice was unmistakable.

Your eyes stung. "Charles, no. That’s not what I meant." You took a step closer, but the space between you felt like a chasm. "I worry. You push yourself so hard, and I-"

He turned then, eyes meeting yours, frustration and something deeper swirling in their depths. "Do you know what it’s like?" His voice cracked, raw and tense. "To carry all of this? The pressure, the expectations…? Every single day, everyone looking at me, waiting for me to either win or fail." He shook his head. "And then I come home, and it feels like I’m failing here too."

The words hit you like a stab to the heart, and they probably were a stab to the heart. "Charles…" Your voice was barely a whisper. "I didn’t mean to add to it. I just… I see you carrying all of this, and it scares me. I don’t want you to break."

He looked away, jaw tight. "I’m already breaking." The statement was soft, almost lost to the wind. "I wake up thinking about the next race. I go to sleep replaying every mistake I made. And I know people are waiting for me to slip, to prove that I’m not good enough." His eyes found yours again, and there was a vulnerability there that made your heart ache."I’m afraid too. Afraid of letting everyone down. Afraid of losing… you. All because of my stupid mistakes."

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You closed the distance between you, reaching for his hand. He let you, fingers cold but steady. "You’re never losing me,” you said, voice firm despite the emotion threatening to choke you. "I’m here. I’ll always be here."

He looked down, chuckling emotionlessly, thumb brushing over your knuckles. "Sometimes, it feels like I can’t breathe. Like I’m drowning under it all."

You squeezed his hand, stepping closer until your chest touched his. "You don’t have to carry it alone. I know I can’t take the weight off your shoulders, but I can stand beside you. I can remind you that you’re more than the races, more than the wins or losses."

He closed his eyes, taking a shaky breath. When he opened them again, the anger had softened, replaced by something raw and unspoken. "I’m sorry. I know I shut you out sometimes. It’s not fair to you."

You shook your head. "You don’t have to apologize for being human. I just… I want you to let me in. Let me help."

He reached up, cupping your face in his hands. His touch was gentle, a stark contrast to the tension that had been there moments ago. "I don’t deserve you," he whispered, voice barely audible.

You smiled, tears slipping down your cheeks. "You deserve everything, Charles, my angel. And I’ll remind you of that every day if I have to."

He leaned his forehead against yours, the distance between you finally gone. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The world around you faded away; the distant hum of the city, the gentle lapping of the waves. There was only this. Only him. Only Charles.

"Forever mine?" he whispered, his voice barely above a breath.

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, your heart swelling. "Forever yours."

He held you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded, his grip tight, almost desperate. The walls he had built around himself were still there, but for now, they had cracks, just enough to let you in.

As the wind carried the scent of salt and the promise of better days, you knew that this was how it would be. There would be fights, and fears, and moments where everything felt like it was falling apart. But there would also be this: quiet moments in the dark, where love felt like the strongest thing in the world.

[the-oblivious-writer]

Heavy

Tara Carpenter x Reader

One-Shot

Summary: After surviving a brutal attack that left you in a coma, you awaken to find the love of your life, Tara Carpenter, has vanished from your side despite the endless nights she spent holding your hand through the worst of it.

Warning(s): Trauma, no pronouns, references to past (Scream 6) violence, mental struggles, survivor's guilt, stalking, emotional manipulation (self-imposed), and PTSD.

Notes: I was listening to Red Hot Chili Peppers while writing this.

You never looked more beautiful than when you were dying.

That thought haunts Tara as she lies in her empty bed, tracing patterns on sheets that still smell faintly of your perfume. Three months since she last held your hand in that sterile hospital room. Three months of pretending she made the right choice.

The machines kept time with your heartbeat, a rhythm she memorized during those endless nights at your bedside. Sometimes, she still hears it in her dreams - that steady beeping that meant you were still fighting, still here, still hers. Until she decided you couldn't be hers anymore.

Sam stopped by earlier, concern etched in the corners of her eyes. "You're punishing yourself," she'd said, leaving a container of soup that now sits untouched on Tara's nightstand. Maybe she is. But isn't that better than the alternative? Better than waiting for the next masked figure to emerge from the shadows, seeking to add your name to the growing list of people she's lost?

Your coma lasted six weeks. Six weeks of Tara reading to you, singing softly when the nurses weren't around, telling you all the things she should have said before. How you made her feel safe in a world that had given her every reason not to be. How your laugh could chase away the darkness that sometimes threatened to swallow her whole. How you never treated her like she was broken, even when she felt held together by nothing but stubborn will and surgical tape.

She remembers the first time you kissed her, after that night at the bowling alley. You'd been so careful with her, like you understood without being told that touch wasn't always easy for her anymore. Your hands had framed her face like she was something precious, something worth protecting. If only you'd protected yourself from her instead.

The phone on her nightstand lights up with another missed call from Chad. He's been trying to get her to come out, insisting that isolation isn't the answer. But how can she explain that every time she closes her eyes, she sees you in that hospital bed? The bandages, the bruises, the way your chest rose and fell with mechanical precision because you couldn't breathe on your own. All because someone had wanted to hurt her, and you'd been brave enough - stupid enough - to step between her and the blade.

"I can't lose you," she had whispered to your unconscious form. "I won't survive it."

But when you finally opened your eyes, weak and confused but alive, Tara realized something worse than losing you to death: losing you by choice, pushing you away to keep you safe from the curse that seems to follow her like a shadow.

The breakup was clean, surgical - like so many of the scars that map her body. She'd practiced the words in front of her bathroom mirror until they stopped making her cry. "I can't do this anymore. I need space. I need to focus on healing." All the clichés that meant nothing and everything at once. You'd looked at her with those eyes that always saw too much, and for a moment, she thought you might fight her on it. Almost hoped you would.

But you didn't. You just nodded, pressed a kiss to her forehead that felt like goodbye, and walked away. Maybe you understood. Maybe you were tired of loving someone who carried death in her wake like a bitter perfume.

Tara rolls onto her side, pulling your old high school sweatshirt tighter around herself. It stopped smelling like you weeks ago, but she wears it anyway, a form of self-torture she can't seem to give up. On her desk, photographs mock her with frozen moments of happiness - you and her at the beach, your hair wild with salt air and sunshine. The two of you at the twins' birthday party, your arm around her waist as she actually smiled for the camera. A quiet morning in your apartment, where you'd captured her making coffee in one of your oversized t-shirts, looking at peace in a way she rarely felt anymore.

Her friends tell her she's different now. Quieter. The spark that had started to return during your time together has dimmed again. Even Mindy, who never comments on anything serious, asked if she was okay the other day. Tara had wanted to laugh. Okay? How could she be when you're forced to bear wounds that were meant for her? When she spends her nights parked across from your apartment, engine off, watching the soft glow of your bedroom light like a moth drawn to flame?

She tells herself it's protection, not obsession. That someone needs to make sure you're safe, even if you don't know they're there. But the truth sits heavy in her chest as she watches your silhouette move behind curtains - the way you still favor your left side, a reminder of wounds that were meant for her. Sometimes, she catches glimpses of you leaving for work, and the sight of you walking alone makes her hands shake against the steering wheel. You look smaller somehow, or maybe that's just the distance she's forced between you.

Last week, you almost saw her. You were collecting mail from your box, and something made you turn, scanning the street with that sixth sense you always seemed to have. Tara had ducked down so fast she'd knocked her head against the dashboard, heart thundering so loud she was sure you'd hear it even from across the street. When she finally dared to look again, you were gone, but she could have sworn there were tears on your cheeks.

She knows it's wrong. Knows that if Sam or Chad found out about these nightly vigils, they'd tell her she's sliding back into old patterns, letting trauma dictate her choices. But how can she explain that sleeping is impossible unless she knows you're safe? That every time she closes her eyes without checking on you, her nightmares paint your death in vivid technicolor?

It's only a matter of time before you two cross paths again. It happens at the corner market three blocks from your old shared apartment. The same place where you used to buy cookie dough ice cream at midnight, where Tara would pretend to complain about enabling your sweet tooth while secretly loving how your kisses tasted afterward. She's reaching for coffee - your brand, though she'll never admit it - when she hears the soft intake of breath behind her.

Time stretches like taffy, sticky and overwhelming. Your reflection in the freezer glass is both familiar and foreign - thinner maybe, or just holding yourself differently. The scar above your collarbone peeks out from your shirt collar, a silvery reminder of everything she's tried to forget.

"Tara."

Her name in your mouth still sounds like coming home. She forces herself to turn, to face the reality of you standing three feet away with a basket of groceries hanging from your arm. The fluorescent lights cast shadows under your eyes that weren't there before, and she wonders if you're sleeping any better than she is.

"You look..." The words tangle in her throat. Alive. Beautiful. Like everything I've been running from. "...good."

Your laugh is hollow, nothing like the sound she keeps locked away in her memory. "Liar." You shift your weight, and she catches the slight wince - another reminder of what loving her cost you. "You've lost weight."

"Haven't been hungry much." The confession slips out before she can stop it.

Something flashes across your face - concern, maybe anger. You take a step forward, and she matches it with a step back, her spine hitting the cold glass of the freezer door. The coffee can in her hands shakes slightly.

"Don't," she whispers, but she's not sure if she's talking to you or herself.

"Don't what, Tara? Don't care? Don't worry? Because I tried that. It doesn't work." Your voice cracks on the last word, and she watches you swallow hard. "I see your car, you know. Outside my apartment."

The confession lands like a physical blow. Heat crawls up her neck as shame mingles with something else - relief, maybe, that you still know her well enough to notice. That some part of you is still watching for her too.

"I just..." She closes her eyes, unable to bear the weight of your gaze. "I need to know you're safe."

"Safe?" Now there's definitely anger in your voice. "You want me safe? Then stop making decisions for both of us. Stop deciding what I can and can't handle. Stop-" Your voice breaks, and when she opens her eyes, there are tears tracking down your cheeks. "Stop acting like your love is a death sentence."

The coffee can clatters to the floor, forgotten. Her hands ache to reach for you, to wipe away those tears she caused. But she forces them to stay at her sides, nails digging crescents into her palms.

"You almost died," she says, the words tasting like copper in her mouth. "Because of me. Because I thought I could have this - have you - without danger following. I was wrong."

"No." You step closer, and this time she can't make herself move away. "I almost died because some psychopath decided to come after us with a knife. Not because of you. Never because of you."

Your hand reaches out, hovering just shy of touching her face. She can feel the heat of it, the promise of contact that makes her chest tight with wanting. The market's muzak plays faintly in the background, some old love song that feels like mockery.

"I miss you," you whisper, and it's the gentlest violence she's ever experienced. "I miss you, and I'm not sleeping, and sometimes I think I see you everywhere, only to turn around and find empty space. And then I realized I wasn't imagining it - you were actually there, watching over me like some heartbroken guardian angel."

A sob builds in her throat. "I don't know how to stop loving you."

"Then don't." Your hand finally makes contact, cupping her cheek, and Tara breaks. "Don't stop. Just... come home."

She leans into your touch for one heartbeat, two, allowing herself to remember what it feels like to be held by hands that know all her scars. Then she steps back, away from your warmth, your forgiveness, your love that feels too much like salvation.

"I can't." The words taste like ash. "I'm sorry. I can't."

She runs. Past the dropped coffee, past the concerned clerk, past everything but the sound of you calling her name. It follows her all the way home, where she collapses against her front door and finally lets herself cry for everything she keeps choosing to lose.

The worst part is knowing that if she could do it all over again - live another life, make different choices - she'd still choose you. Still fall for the way you dance off-beat to every song, still melt at how you bring her coffee just the way she likes it, still love you with every broken piece of herself. She'd just do a better job of staying away before you could love her back.

Night settles around her like a familiar weight. In the darkness, she can almost pretend you're still here, that this is just another evening where you'll wrap your arms around her and keep the nightmares at bay. But the bed stays empty, and the shadows stay thick, and somewhere across town, you're probably sleeping peacefully for the first time since you met her.

"I love you," she whispers to the empty room, words she never said enough when she had the chance. "I love you, and that's why I can't keep you."

The silence offers no comfort, no contradiction. Just the steady tick of her bedside clock, counting down the moments until another day without you begins. Another day of being strong enough to keep her distance, of choosing your safety over her happiness. Another day of remembering that sometimes love means knowing when to let go, even when every cell in your body screams to hold on tighter.

Sleep will come eventually, bringing dreams of your smile, your touch, the way you used to look at her like she hung the stars. And tomorrow, she'll wake up and do it all again - loving you from afar, keeping you safe the only way she knows how. Because that's what love is to Tara Carpenter now: not a fairy tale, not a happy ending, but a sacrifice she makes every day to keep you breathing.

Even if it means she can barely breathe herself.

-----------

A/N: the meaning behind The Maria's "Heavy" inspired this.

[orionremastered]

Hybrid/shapeshifter golden tiger reader as a vigilante with batfam? I really love your writing :0

They're so PRETTY how did I not know they existed before???? Also I love shifter fics bc who doesn't

Masterlist

Part Two

Golden

Being a shifter is bad in this day and age, at least until the shifter is mature enough to shift on command. Before then, young shifters can shift with any strong emotion, especially negative ones like anger and fear.

Most shifters mature when they turn into adults, which means they're either taught to become temporary psychopaths or are homeschooled until they're mature enough.

You, like many shifters, were the latter. Now that you're in university and studying biology, living in your own apartment states away from your parents, you're free. So incredibly free.

Free to be you, free to talk to people who interest you, and free to fight the lowly criminals of Goth- wait, what?

It was an accident, you swear. You couldn't bear to hear that poor little girl's blood-curdling screams (you hadn't understood what the phrase meant before, but you sure do now) any longer, so you shifted and almost, but not quite, mauled the man to death.

"Pretty kitty!" she had called you, and from then on you vowed to look after the young kids of Gotham, especially when going to and coming from school as well as at night (if you weren't studying). Sometimes you simply lay in the bushes of a park and watched over the kids as they played on the playground.

They remained your main focus (though you did save others, you mostly watched over the young children) even when the press got wind of the golden tiger shifter vigilante. "Golden" is what they called you, and it was certainly better than other names the press had given vigilantes before.

The local bat population had gotten word of your existence beforehand and had tried to even just get a glimpse of you, but you were too quick. After the press got wind, they amped up their efforts.

You've decidedly had enough of your studying and walked out of your apartment, climbing into the window of an ashy-smelling abandoned building, the charcoal staining your fingers as you moved into the dark to shift.

One could guess what happened to the building, but it didn't have anything to do with a golden tiger climbing out its window on a cool early spring night, the snow thawing slower than usual. There weren't many people on the streets at this hour which you were glad for.

You take your normal route today, going through the less fortunate neighbourhoods where kids are most commonly found. Slushy snow drenches your paws in cold water as you leap onto the next roof and climb down the stairs on the side of the building.

There's a bundle of blankets placed gently into a plastic bucket. You nudge the bundle with your nose gently and when the wailing begins you huff. Another abandoned baby; it's the third one this month. A mother you can't afford a child or is scared for the child's safety when it comes to the father.

Your teeth close around the bucket and you begin carrying the baby to the hospital in Crime Alley, a long trek from where you picked the baby up.

You hear something. Whispers. Your ears rotate to find the source of the sound which would be impossible for a human to hear.

"That's the tiger?"

"No shit," the second voice hisses, much older than the first. "What else could it be? A cow?"

"Whatever," the first one replies. "What do we do? Think that's a baby?"

"Probably. I say we take the baby and bring it to the hospital."

You turn your head to where the sound is coming from, impeccable vision allowing you to see Robin and Red Hood perched on a building above you.

"What about the- how good is a tiger's hearing?"

You do trust these vigilantes but not more than you trust yourself. You flick your tail and continue walking, a few corners from the hospital. The sound of their grappling hooks as the vigilantes follow you are only able to annoy you.

There's the hospital, just at the end of the street. You take no more than two steps before Red Hood steps out in front of you. You aren't surprised as you could hear him the entire time.

"Can I have the baby?" He asks, hand outstretched as he gestures for you to hand it over.

Your eyes narrow and you turn to see Robin behind you.

"It'll be easier for me to get it to the hospital," he explains. "They won't react calmly to a tiger carrying a baby."

He had an unfortunately valid point. The other times where you'd brought a baby into a facility, people freaked out.

Reluctantly, you gently place the bucket on the cold pavement and step back, letting the vigilante pick it up.

As Red Hood takes the baby to the hospital, you turn fully to face Robin. He's short and you reach up to the start of his ribcage.

"You're not an easy tiger to locate," he says. "It takes a few idiots."

You make a sound akin to a laugh, turn your head and vanish into the alleyway beside you.

Robin curses himself for not getting to pat the tiger. He'll be damned if his siblings get to first.

[whisper-in-the-night]

My headcanons for Art the Clown

Tw: mention of violence, blood, killing and etc

Note: sorry for long waiting, I had some stuff to do. But I watched this movie last night, just can't not to write something

• Suppose that by some miracle you interested him, and Art changed his mind about killing you.

• Art is a man of the moment, of impulse, in this regard he is like a child. If he wants something, he will get it, no matter how. If he's interested in you, he'll get you and keep you.

• Again, he is quite childish, and since he cannot speak, all his emotions are visible in his body language and antics. His childish behavior can also manifest itself in frequent insults. He will be sitting on the couch with his arms folded and fundamentally avoiding your gaze. Try to guess what he's offended about. And it's better to do it quickly, before the desire to tear some human flesh wakes up in him. His mood changes very often, so be always prepared for the fact that at the moment of rare hugs he will suddenly become agitated or, conversely, aggressive.

• He's very jealous. It's not that he's insecure, he just doesn't like sharing his stuff, including you. You better not pay too much attention to other people unless you want to see their guts smeared on the wall in your bathroom.

• Despite this, Art is quite protective. He won't let anything happen to you. Be prepared that he will be constantly watching you. But now you can safely walk through the dark alleys, Art is always there, you are under the reliable protection of this guard dog.

• Art likes to scare you more than his victims. He doesn't know why, but he really likes the taste of your fear, it really turns him on. But Art will never really hurt you enough, except for a few cuts or bruises. There's something about you that makes him fear losing you for real. There's something special about the way you're scared of him. Maybe it's your expression or your cute screams, he doesn't know. But your guardian definitely makes him feel a lingering warmth in his lower belly.

• His actions and feelings can hardly be called love, because he really does not know how to get attached, he is just not quite the person for this. But he shows a certain affection in his own way. First of all, he's not killing you. Secondly, sometimes he tries to take into account your wishes in many things, tries to find out what you like. Thirdly, he can be quite clingy. When Art realizes that he wants your attention, he can gently pull the sleeve of your hoodie, as if asking for a hug, or he can just roughly grab you by the waist and put you on his lap.

• He really doesn't care about your appearance, he has a weakness for you because it's you.

• Talking about what you like. Art is very narcissistic and cruel. But over time, he will realize that your smile and your joy create some kind of strange feeling in his chest, he likes it. In fact, Art makes you happy only because it gives him a certain pleasure.

• He loves using you as bait for his victims. This gives him an extra push to kill his victim in an even more brutal way.

• In general, he can be kind to a certain extent, he even brings you small gifts from time to time. Besides, he's crazy about the sight of someone else's blood on your face and skin. But you'll definitely have to teach him to wash more often and eat normal food.

[aventurineswife]

Running in the Shadows

Summary: Caught in a chase under the moonlit sky, you believe you can outrun Moze, the elusive Shadow Guard of the Yaoqing. But Moze quickly catches up, only to surprise you.

Tags: Moze x Reader(can be read as platonically) Chase scene, Hurt/Comfort, Protector, Slow Burn, Tension, Fluff with Angst, Emotional Vulnerability, Barefoot Running.

Warnings: Mentions of panic and fear during the chase, Slight physical restraint, Mild emotional tension.

Feel free to send in your requests!

Original Idea

The moon hung high in the sky, casting an eerie glow on the deserted streets of the city. You sprinted down the narrow alleyways, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you glanced back over your shoulder. The sound of footsteps echoed ominously behind you, but you believed you could outpace your pursuer. After all, you were nimble and fast, and this was your territory.

You turned sharply, weaving through the shadows, your breath quickening as you picked up speed. However, the footsteps only grew louder, each step punctuating the air with an unsettling promise. Who was chasing you? You didn’t have time to think about it; you needed to escape.

As you rounded another corner, the alley widened, and you felt a rush of hope. Perhaps you could find a place to hide, a chance to lose whoever was behind you. You pushed your legs harder, ignoring the sting of your bare feet against the cold pavement, the gravel digging into your soles. You were almost there—just a few more steps.

Suddenly, a shadow loomed ahead of you, and instinct kicked in. You turned to run the other way, but in an instant, the figure emerged from the darkness—a tall, muscular silhouette with gray hair cascading over one shoulder. You recognized him instantly.

“Moze...” you gasped, feeling a mix of fear and an inexplicable thrill.

He moved with a predatory grace, closing the distance between you with ease. Panic surged through you, and you quickened your pace again, but it was futile. With a swift motion, he reached out and grabbed your waist, effortlessly lifting you off your feet.

“Got you.” he said, his voice low and steady, but there was no malice in his tone—only an unsettling calm.

Before you could react, he lowered you gently onto something soft. Confused, you looked down to find your shoes—waiting for you. The act was so unexpected, so disarming, that you almost forgot about your fear.

“Why were you running?” Moze asked, his violet-blue eyes locking onto yours, a hint of concern flickering beneath his stoic demeanor.

You stammered, “I… I thought you were after me.”

“I was,” he admitted, a faint smirk teasing the corner of his lips. “But not in the way you think.”

His hands remained on your, grounding, you as you tried to catch your breath. There was a vulnerability in his gaze, a flicker of something deeper beneath the surface—a connection that transcended the chase.

“Put your shoes on,” he said, his voice softening. “You’ll hurt yourself running around barefoot.”

The warmth of his hands lingered on your skin, and you nodded, slipping your feet into the shoes. The fit offered a sense of security, a reminder that despite the shadows surrounding you, there was someone watching over you.

“Thank you,” you said quietly, looking up at him. “I didn’t expect you to… uh help me?”

“Neither did I,” he replied, his expression unreadable. “But you shouldn’t have to run alone.”

In that moment, as the city around you buzzed with the life of the night, the world felt a little less chaotic. Moze, the enigmatic Shadow Guard, had pulled you from the edge of fear, reminding you that sometimes, the shadows held more than just danger; they held unexpected allies.

Just then, a distant siren blared, cutting through the stillness of the night. Moze’s expression hardened, the vulnerability replaced by a shadow of tension.

“We need to move.” he said, suddenly alert.

“Where?” you asked, glancing around nervously.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his eyes scanning the dark alley as if he could sense something looming just beyond the edge of the shadows. “Anywhere but here.” he replied, a cryptic urgency lacing his tone.

Before you could question him further, he reached for your hand, pulling you toward the darkest recess of the alley. The grip was firm, yet the moment felt surreal, as if the very air around you was thickening with unspoken truths.

As you ran, the weight of uncertainty hung heavily in the air. Just ahead, you spotted a narrow doorway that led to the unknown. With a fleeting glance over your shoulder, you caught a glimpse of movement—a flicker of shadows beyond the light.

Just as you reached the door, the echo of hurried footsteps filled the alley behind you—voices, angry and demanding. Moze’s grip tightened, and in one swift motion, he yanked open the door, revealing an inky darkness that swallowed you whole.

“What’s back there?” you asked, your heart racing.

“I don’t know,” Moze replied, glancing back at you, a shadow of doubt crossing his face. “But we don’t have time to find out.”

You hesitated at the threshold, the fear of the unknown clashing with the urgency of the moment. “Moze, wait—”

He turned, his violet-blue eyes piercing through the dark. “Trust me,” he urged, an intensity in his voice that sent a shiver down your spine. “We can’t let them catch us.”

And in that moment, as the door creaked open wider, you were faced with a choice. You could step into the darkness with him, leaving everything behind, or retreat to the light where you might be safe but alone.

As you weighed your options, the footsteps grew louder, and the shadows began to close in around you. The last thing you heard before the door swung shut was Moze’s voice, a whisper that echoed in your mind: “Sometimes, the darkest paths lead to the brightest futures…”

The door slammed shut, and the world around you faded to black, leaving you to wonder what awaited in the unknown and whether you would ever find your way back.

[satubby]

Yandere God Gojo headconons

[As promised, a bit late I know, but I needed my time to not cry for Satoru so an apology. So since I'm not good at describing powers and let's add to that Jujutsu Kaisen has mathematics, which I hate... I just won't go into his god-like powers]

This post comes from the previous idea, you can find it in my profile. Credits to the artist and me for the edition.

⚠️ Warning: This is MY interpretation of the character but it does not define the canon, I want to show my love for him (Fuck Gege for all I care) There may also be pronoun errors because damn my dyslexia affects my eyesight.

On an ordinary night, your mother sent you to the mini supermarket, a place similar to convenience stores like pharmacies. 「More common in my native Mexico, such as an Oxxo.」

Unexpectedly, a curse/demon began to haunt you. Without knowing how, you ended up cornered in an alley, the rain adding a touch of desperation to the atmosphere. Exhausted, you tripped over a trash can, lacerating your leg in the fall.

The unimaginable happened when your blood, the fruit of the scrape, awakened a god enclosed within a bucket, multiple eyes arranged in a dice-like pattern 「Yeah, I fucking used 'It' you thought」. Your blood acted as a call for the imprisoned being lying in there.

Satoru, the god that lay dormant, awoke. Upon realizing your situation, he offered to help you, but not before uttering the words that would seal your fate: "Tell me, mortal, do you accept that I save you by giving me something precious? Yes or no, the choice is yours."

Given your young age of six and the impossibility of facing the dreadful monster that pursued you, you had no choice but to accept. How could you refuse? Hell, you were a brat who could barely carry your mother's bag of errands, much less fight that dreadful thing that wanted you dead.

And so the deal between you and the unknown god was sealed with…. a tongue kiss. 「Despite its polemical nature, it is crucial to the development of the plot」.

❀.°• ─ ─ ─ ─➢ Satoru, in his divine form, is an extraordinarily powerful being. Sometimes, his impressive abilities can lead you into complicated situations, such as when a simple sneeze from him transported you to another dimension. Such is his level of power. 「In this version, we will represent him as an invincible individual to explore his unrestricted potential…. P.S. I hate you Gege」 ❀.°• ─ ─ ─ ─➢ Gojo is often playful and teasing, he often jokes with you, even going so far as to claim that you are his "wife" although it sounds like a joke, he really means it. His attitude toward other people's opinions is indifferent. He enjoys showing affection, kissing and caressing you, although he has waited for you to reach adulthood before formally considering you his mate in public. ❀.°• ─ ─ ─ ─➢ When he is not using his 'real' form, we see him as the canonical Satoru, though obviously with Lovecraftian touches to his powers. Despite his divine nature, he exhibits a somewhat childish side, similar to what he shows in canon… BUT 100% times worse, as he has been alone and being powerful, he doesn't have much morals as he considers it stupid to abide by the rules of 'lesser beings'. Despite his playful and relaxed attitude, he hides a dark side. He is aware of how capable he is of destroying a city with a single finger, if he so desires. ❀.°• ─ ─ ─ ─➢ Handling his jealousy is not his strong point, given that he has always gotten what he wanted and not knowing how to deal with humans despite having spent millennia observing them or making deals before being 'sealed' 「More like sleeping」It always makes it difficult for him to respond to his own emotions. ❀.°• ─ ─ ─ ─➢ Since he is not human and was born in the void of nothingness and everything, he has wandered and fought in various places, often just for fun or out of sheer boredom. His reactions can be fickle and capricious. This Satoru is a mixture of his adolescent and adult stages, mostly acting like a spoiled brat and playful with you but when he is jealous or sentimental, he acts according to his divine position. ❀.°• ─ ─ ─ ─➢ When he feels jealous, his reaction is unpredictable. If the reason for his jealousy persists 「Examples are like a male human talking to you」 And already for that reason he might decide to eliminate the source of his discomfort. For this reason, you hardly interact with other people. It is intriguing how loving words and gestures can appease him…. Although sometimes that doesn't assure you that those poor souls who crossed words with you will be saved from him. ❀.°• ─ ─ ─ ─➢ As a divine being, he has the power to materialize anything you desire. His gifts have no limits, and he takes you wherever you want. Sometimes, on a mere whim, he grabs you and takes you on unexpected rides using his abilities. It is curious how he shows jealousy towards any thinking human being, and even animals, taking you back home without allowing the date to continue or any activity prior to his jealousy.

"Toru… for once, let me enjoy this vacation. If you take me somewhere, make it really worthwhile. I couldn't even ride the roller coaster just because the ticket booth clerk was a man…" You looked at him as he pretended not to have pulled you out of the amusement park just 5 minutes ago due to his jealousy.

"Come on, couldn't we go another time…? It's no big deal, you know I can take you anytime, why don't we cuddle instead of fighting, would you like me to shower you with kisses, mmh? Come on, my sweet bean mochi!!! I want to…" You looked at him, almost incredulous. You really doubt he'll let you go to a crowded amusement park. If you go, it will surely be when he's off duty or with a snap of his fingers, it's not for nothing that he can stop time.

"Even if you do that, it doesn't mean I'm no longer upset with you." You watched her pouting expression. Despite having six beautiful eyes and six arms, you didn't want to fall for his game.

Gojo was unwilling to listen to your complaints. He was in a bad mood, convinced that you would understand his position. He acted like a child seeking to get your attention to deflect your anger. And so, he devised a plan. He moved closer to you by climbing up on the edge of the bed. "Mochi, do you prefer something sweet or sour?"

"Do you think that's an appropriate question to change the subject? I'm still annoyed with you. Hey, let go of me!" You felt his firm embrace, laughing as he kissed your neck and his chest pressed against your back.

He took a lock of your hair behind your ear and fiddled with it in his mouth. A shiver ran through your body as his lips brushed your earlobe. "Why are you playing hard to get when you know I know you well? Besides, I know my jealousy doesn't affect you, and I'm going to make sure you're only mine." He laughed softly, pulling you closer to him.

"Satoru… That doesn't justify you threatening anyone who looks at me. I don't want to be embarrassed like the other day in the cafeteria, when you tried to hurt the cashier just because I ordered a cappuccino." You whispered as his six arms held you tighter and in different places, listening to his childish whimper as he buried his face in the back of your neck.

His behavior was becoming more aggressive and lustful, making him dangerous. He held you in such a way that you could not move. He looked at you with playful eyes, sketching a smile.

"So what if I'm jealous? If I'm honest with you, if another guy tried to get your attention, I'd be sure to eliminate any interest he showed." A smirk formed on his face. You knew that ugly smile well, a cruel and possessive one, dealing with his jealousy sometimes exhausted you … you had no choice since your soul was bound to him.

He kissed you passionately and caressed your body, his touch was too pleasurable to resist, your flushed but annoyed face said it all. He didn't mind at all acting that way in public if it meant you would still be his. "You will always be my only princess….. I love you, my precious mochi," he whispered softly before delivering another intense kiss, this time on your lips, his arms frolicking with you and bringing an even more severe blush to your face.

NSFW:

••┈┈┈••✦ This Satoru loves to make you scream, if Sukuna in his original form can grind you to exhaustion, our albino won't let you rest. ••┈┈┈••✦ He loves having you in front of his cock, the worst thing is that he can create more if he wants to. Let's add that he has six arms, each one can overstimulate you, forget to mention that Gojo is 213 cm / 7'1 feet, you are a midget next to him. So his cock and fingers are the size of your arms, but he can fucking manipulate reality and adjust your pussy to his size. ••┈┈┈••✦ He loves you riding his cock while he hears you moaning, sometimes you end up kissing him. He loves you sucking him while he pulls your hair. His hands usually go from your breasts to your waist [Sorry I'm not good at writing NSFW] All while you swallow his cock, his fingers have claws and putting them all the way in hurts but in the pleasure you end up giving priority to your lust, forgetting the pain. ••┈┈┈••✦ Honestly, Satoru can make your body not get tired so easily, but he is not cruel so he can set limits for you. He especially loves to bite, while you scratch him all over the place. ••┈┈┈••✦ His aftercare is incredibly gentle, he kisses and lulls you as if you were a baby, and how could he not? When he leaves you all exhausted down there and you can't feel your legs. Sometimes he gets to the point where his excitement clouds his judgement, ending up with your bones broken.

In general, having a relationship with him is like going on a roller coaster ride: You can feel a rush of various emotions and in turn want more of it even though you know it's scary to a certain extent. Just avoid making Satoru jealous and everything will be fine [What won't be fine are your mouth, your ass and pussy]

Tag list for those readers who gave heart to my previous publication:

@cyppelizabeth

@nunezs-stuff, @istanuwow, @crazynocturnalkiki, @gleski, @halalangyala, @milotoby, @candyqueen10, @unramdommas2004, @ermy1234, @erens-bbyy, @muichirolover, @potatofriesthings, @sobbing-leave-me-alone-bots, @flaming-vulpix,@cyrs,@honeygonebads-blog,@smoovehunie, @toxicbabygirl, @steppin-by-sunflowers, @serafina-nyx, @fav1mika, @bitchycherryblaze, @kals05, @rainbowpillbug0, @2kimmin4ever, @regalillegal,@zainabismelodramatic @starberrytarts,

[maomiscorner]

Holding on to You - short ff

Background: In this romantic fanfiction, Y/N, a girl battling depression and anxiety, finds comfort and hope in her relationship with Jake, a member of ENHYPEN. Through his love and unwavering support, Y/N learns to see the light in herself, even on her darkest days.

Pairing: idol!Jake x f!reader

There was a calming stillness in the small café tucked away in the alleys of Seoul. The soft, warm lights illuminated the pastel-colored walls, creating an intimate and cozy atmosphere. Y/N sat by the window, watching the light rain fall gently on the glass. It was her favorite spot, the one where she often retreated with Jake, far from the eyes of the world.

But today, she was alone. Jake was still busy with rehearsals for the new album, but he had promised he would come soon. Despite that, a slight sense of anxiety started creeping into her chest. Y/N wrapped herself in her oversized sweater, seeking comfort. Ever since she started dating Jake, her days had become brighter, but sometimes those dark moments came back. Depression and anxiety were like old ghosts that never fully left her in peace.Lost in those thoughts, the familiar sound of the door opening brought her back to reality. Looking up, she saw Jake walk in, his hair still a bit damp from the rain, and that smile that always made her heart beat a little faster. He quickly made his way to her, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead before sitting next to her.

"Did I make you wait too long?" he asked, his voice soft and concerned.Y/N shook her head, trying to hide the lingering restlessness inside. "No, everything's fine. I'm just happy you're here." Jake watched her carefully, as if he could read her deepest emotions without her needing to say a word. He had always been so attentive, so caring. Even when she felt lost within herself, he was there, with that gentle smile that seemed to pull her back to the surface. "I brought something for you," he said suddenly, pulling a small package from his jacket pocket.

Y/N looked at him curiously, her eyes widening. "What is it?" "Open it and see." With slightly trembling hands, Y/N opened the package to reveal a delicate silver necklace with a small star-shaped pendant. It was simple, elegant, yet incredibly meaningful.

Words struggled to come out. "Jake... it's beautiful, but why?" Jake smiled, taking her hand tenderly. "Every time you feel lost or sad, I want you to look at this star. Because even in the darkest nights, there's always a light shining for you. And that light, Y/N, is you. Even if you don't always see it."

Y/N’s heart swelled with emotion. There were times when the world felt too heavy to bear, but Jake always managed to remind her of her worth, even when she forgot it herself.Tears filled her eyes, but they weren't from sadness. It was as if Jake's love could melt away that invisible grip that often held her captive. "Thank you," she whispered softly, squeezing his hand. "I don't know how you do it, but you always make me feel better." Jake gently stroked her cheek, his gaze full of tenderness. "You don't have to thank me. That's what people who love each other do, right? They take care of one another."

Y/N nodded, feeling surrounded by a warmth that went beyond words. In that moment, with Jake by her side, the world seemed less frightening. He was her safe harbor, her light in the dark. "Just promise me one thing," Jake said, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between them."What?" "That you'll keep fighting, even on the days when everything feels harder. I'll always be here, but you're stronger than you think."

Y/N smiled through her tears, feeling the bond between them grow even stronger. It was true, her battles weren’t over, but with Jake by her side, she knew she could face anything.

Because love, true love, was the greatest strength of all. And in that moment, with the sound of rain in the background and Jake's warm hands in hers, Y/N understood that she wasn't alone. She never would be.

Jake kissed her gently, a simple gesture yet filled with promises. A promise of love, of support, and of a life to be lived together, despite everything.

[sitkowski]

punish || part one

one || i want to know what it feels like

pairing: incubus!jolly x f!reader cw: 18+ MDNI ⚠️ (for this chapter) allusions to mind manipulations, murder, oral sex (f!receiving), overstimulation. word count: 1.8k author's notes: okay and we're off! this one is gonna be a wild ride and it's my first multi chaptered fic in a while. chapter title comes from "onanist" by ethel cain, divider by @saradika-graphics.

⇉ masterpost || punish masterpost || playlist || taglist signups

There is a very attractive boy at the bar with silver hair that keeps looking Jolly’s way. He’s been sitting in a booth in the back for hours now, people watching. He’s selective about his meals, not about their gender. He can look at a person and see how well they will feed him, how they will taste. Some will last him a week, others mere hours. It’s been hundreds of years, more than he cares to recount now, but he still feels that rush of picking out the perfect meal, seeing the desperation in their eyes as they offer him everything they have.

Incubus. Sleep demon. Devil. Nightmare. He’s heard them all and he’s embraced what he is. He hasn’t felt remorse about the things that he has done to survive in a very long time. Lack of humanity, lack of conscience, call it what you will. He likes to think of it as surviving. If that means picking off a few club kids here and there to satiate his appetite for this evening, then so be it. It’s all food to him; emotions, sexual energy, the act itself. He isn’t fond of taking people against their will very often, and there are plenty of willing people who just need a little nudge in the right direction.

As he passes through the crowd to reach the bar, he siphons a little bit of sexual energy as he goes; a touch here, a glance there. The place is crowded, and so many bodies pressed together leave Jolly feeling high almost. Humans are very predictable and Jolly is a little vain, if he’s being honest with himself. He uses the fact that he is attractive to his advantage, like now as he approaches the bar and leans against it, giving that silver haired boy his most charming smile.

A little nudge.

It’s easy enough to lead him outside to his demise. The mouth of the alley behind the bar is dark and Jolly backs him into a corner, lowering his mouth just inches from his. He wonders what he looks like to this boy, if he can see through the human glamour he’s come to consider his skin. Jolly reaches up, dragging his fingers over his cheek, watching them lengthen against his pale flesh.

“You’re a fine meal indeed,” he whispers, and the boy’s mouth curves into a smile.

“Thank you.”

“No,” Jolly’s voice grows deeper and he presses one of those nails into the boy’s neck. Blood wells around the wound and he pulls it back to lick it away from his fingers. He tastes like iron and ripe fruit. “Thank you.”

The boy trembles in his arms as the poison takes hold, and Jolly honestly loves this part. Watching the life force, the soul and the tastiest part of a human, be exhaled like smoke that he leans in to take into himself as if he were shotgunning a cigarette. He takes it greedily and the boy doesn’t struggle. The poison doesn’t allow it, something Jolly’s always been a little grateful for. Not because he doesn’t like to inflict pain but because it makes it easier to get away with leaving the poor boy’s body in the alley to be found at a later time.

His hands twitch as he steps back to make sure that he left the boy hidden as well as looking somewhat comfortable. If it weren’t for the blood soaking into his pale blue shirt, the poor soul would just look as if he were sleeping. He’s fed one hunger but there’s always another waiting for him. Sometimes he combines the two, and sometimes he’ll only pick someone up to either be a meal, or to warm a spot in his bed for a while and they get to leave with their lives in the morning.

Jolly makes his way back into the bar, looking for a meal of another kind.

It seems like the most cliche thing in the world; your friends have abandoned you at the bar, and you find yourself having a conversation with a guy that leads to more drinks and more conversation and sitting close to one another like you’re in the middle of a meet cute romcom movie. But the two of you have been talking for over an hour, and maybe you’re imagining the connection you feel. A spark, or whatever. The way he makes you feel as if you’re the only person at this bar.

You don’t question bringing him home with you.

At least you remembered to get his first name. Joakim—call me Jolly, everyone does—is a perfect gentleman on the short walk from the bar to your tiny apartment. He drapes his leather jacket over your shoulders and he walks closer to the street, keeping his hand on your lower back the whole way. Maybe you should feel nervous, bringing a gorgeous stranger back to your place. You did tell your friends you weren’t leaving alone, but that was the most you did.

There's a brief moment where you think you've made a mistake, but then Jolly's touching you, hands warm as they brush against the skin beneath your top while he backs you up against your apartment door to kiss you. You immediately feel breathless with want and you bring your arms up around his shoulders, rising up on your tiptoes as he pulls you hard against his body. Only the sound of his jacket hitting the floor with a slap draws you away, and you shakily pick it up and shove it into his hands before you dig through your purse, sighing as he presses himself against your back. 

You can feel him hard against you through the fabric of your skirt and you manage to get the door unlocked, reaching back to fist a hand in his shirt and yank him inside. Immediately he's on you again, fingers sliding into your hair to cup the back of your neck and push you into the nearest wall. Your hands clutch his face, and you can feel how hot his skin is, he's almost burning up. You’ve never felt this needy for someone before, and maybe you should be more concerned.

He grasps your chin, pushing your head back to lick a line under your jaw and drag his teeth over your pulse point. Your panties are instantly soaked just from a little bit of kissing, and you let your head fall back against the wall as he clenches his fingers harder in the hair at the nape of your neck.

When Jolly lifts his head to look into your eyes, your breath hitches in your chest. He looks inhuman, eyes nearly black and his hair hanging in his face. The corner of his mouth tilts upward and he steps back swiftly, so fast you almost slide down the wall.

“Why don’t you show me where your bedroom is, beautiful?”

His words pull at something low in your stomach and you nod, trying to step away from the wall. Before you can make it very far, he’s pulling you back, and kissing you breathless again. You fall into his chest, whimpering and trying to pull him down the short hallway at the same time. At first, he’s unmovable, but he eventually relents and you lead him into your bedroom. He doesn’t bother to look around at anything. It doesn’t really bother you. Not when his hands slide beneath your sweater and he tugs it over your head, throwing it aside. He lowers the cups of  your bra, stroking your nipples leisurely with his thumb while he wets his bottom lip with his tongue. Your eyes track the movement greedily, unable to voice how much you want him. The idea of speaking right now is entirely lost on you. Finally, you reach behind yourself to undo the hooks, pulling the fabric away and dropping it by your feet

Jolly sinks down to his knees in front of you, and you watch raptly as he reaches up beneath your skirt to pull your underwear down your thighs. They get caught around your boots and he helps you out of them, clenching the fabric in his fist for a moment before he brings it up to his face and presses his nose into the balled up lace. Your skin flushes at the sight and he looks up at you before he tosses them onto your growing pile of clothes.

"Do you know what I want to do to you? I want to worship every inch of your skin, I want to make you scream. I want to eat you alive."

You nod, and he keeps staring at you until you realize that he wants you to actually give him permission to touch you further. “Yes, please.”

His fingers trail up and down your thighs, each pass lighting your skin on fire. You realize that he’s not looking at your face, he’s watching as your wetness is starting to run down your inner thigh. It doesn’t really register how turned on you actually are, until he stands up fluidly and tells you to get out of the rest of your clothes. He doesn’t take off his own, and this should strike you as odd, but it doesn’t.

The second he buries his face between your thighs, you come, sudden and sharp. Jolly doesn't stop, licking you through it. Your hands come down to grasp the back of his head, twisting into the strands and tugging hard. He growls against your cunt and you feel the vibrations of it, your entire body trembling in pleasure as your thighs tighten helplessly around his head. He's already dragging you towards your second orgasm, tongue flicking over your clit before he wraps his lips around it and sucks hard. Your back arches off the bed and you choke out a sobbing moan as he brings you over the edge again.

Your eyes widen as Jolly begins to lick at you again, and you want to tell him to stop, that it's too much, but your words die in your throat. You're practically riding his face as you come a third time, grabbing a pillow to pull over your face to muffle your screams so your neighbors don't hear.

When he finally lets you breathe, your hips are still twitching and tears are in your eyes. His mouth trails softly up your stomach, over the side of your breast and he plucks the pillow from your hands. His face is wet with your arousal and he looks smug. You finally find the sense to reach between your bodies to get to the front of his pants, but he grabs your wrist.

“This was just for you,” he assures you, voice coming out rough. “And maybe it gives me an excuse to see you again.”

It sounds so reasonable, even though you had thought this was going to be nothing more than a one night stand. When you walk him to the door a short time later, he says he’s going to call you but you don’t get your hopes up.

You’re probably never going to see him again.

⇉ taglist

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@malice-ov-mercy @itsjustforce @darksigns-exe @baddestomens @collidewiththesavannah @sorrowsofsilence @fadingangelwisp @wonh0z @xxrainstorm @xxkatsatwatwafflexx @kait16xo

if you ’d like to be added to the taglist, you can find the form at the top of this fic! thanks for reading/reblogging 🩷

[astarionancuntnin]

Die For You (Chapter 2)

summary: following your encounter in that dark alley, you're faced with your old love. will you have the strength to stand up to him?

rating: T

word count: 2.5k

pairing: astarion x you (fem!reader)

cw: kidnapping, reader is shackled for a while, starvation (both imposed by captor and self-imposed), manipulation.

a/n: a shorter chapter and no funny business this time around cause we gotta focus on the development of their relationship while reader is in captivity. also! look out for the additional a/n at the end of the chapter! im undecided on where i want to take this so i want all of your opinions !!

Masterlist

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or keep reading down below~

I fell in love with someone

I don’t know

Anymore, anymore

Sometimes I wonder if you

Think of me

Anymore, anymore

-

You can't make much of what happened after he appeared. You were too shocked by the presence of your past lover to acknowledge whoever cast sleep on you, knocking you unconscious at your most vulnerable moment. Cowards. When you awaken, you’re shackled, hanging to a wall in a dark cell. You pull against the restraints to no avail; you were securely locked in.

Your struggling must’ve made too much noise, as not long afterwards, the door opens wide, revealing Astarion, alone. He was standing proud in lavish clothing, different from the ones you had seen him in at the party a few days ago, but just as proper. As much as these last few months had been awful to you, it seemed like they had been the best in his last 200 years of existence. He approaches you slowly, head held high and arms crossed in his back.

“How’s your head, my dear?”

Hearing his voice again for the first time in months triggers a wave of emotions within you. Hurt, hatred, longing… lust. You shake them away as best as you can before questioning him.

“Why did you bring me here, Astarion?”

“I simply wanted to talk,” he says, his tone annoyingly playful.

“Was the kidnapping and shackles really necessary?” You slightly pull against them again to make your point; you can barely move in this condition.

“Can you blame me? Seeing how you ignored me so easily all night, and the fury in which you provoked my servants, I doubted you were going to follow me here willingly.”

You close your eyes and sigh, dropping your head, discouraged.

“Plus,” he adds, “I couldn’t take the chance to have you run out on me. I let you go once, it’s not a mistake I’ll be doing again.”

“Really? Now, after all these months, you want me back?” You chuckle, somehow finding a way to laugh at the situation you’re in as you raise your head back to meet his gaze. “I notice that your inability to move on wasn’t part of the many things that changed after your ascension.” 

He smiles back, amused by your wits. “I told you, I only changed for the best. Besides, I know you've been missing me just as much.”

“Oh please,” you roll your eyes, trying to conceal your reality. “You couldn’t be further from the truth.” “Am I? Were you not alone and miserable for all these months, flinging yourself at any stranger willing to spend the night with you? Or did my spawns lie to me?”

“Wait… How do you know that? Have you been spying on me?!” You exclaim in disbelief.

“Well, someone had to make sure you weren't off to get yourself killed in some stupid way.” 

You scoff, offended at this image he had of you. “I can handle my own, thank you.”

“And yet, my servants had no problems cornering you in a dark alley.” 

You open your mouth as you're about to answer back when you find yourself at a loss for words. He got you there, the prick. He notices your silence and sighs before commenting on your state.

“I’m sure you’re mad at me right now, and I wouldn’t blame you for it. But know that I’m doing this for your own good.”

“My own good? If you wanted to help me, you would disappear from my life, let me go and give me a chance to move on.” You feel like crying, and yet, the irony of the situation makes you laugh some more. “You have everything you’ve ever dreamed of and yet, you still couldn’t find someone new to replace me.” He laughs lightly. “I’ve only ever wanted you, my treasure. And now,” he walks towards you with a languid pace, his hand reaching for your chin, lifting it to meet his gaze, “You're finally where you belong, where you should have always been in the first place.”

You snap your head out of his grasp. “Shackled at your feet?” You spit out.

He forcefully brings back your gaze on him, his nails grazing your cheeks, making you hiss. “By my side.” He looks at your bared teeth, smiling. “You will make a deadly consort, that I'm sure of.” Your eyes widen as you understand the implication, and your voice rises as the fear starts to set in. “NEVER.” 

He tilts your head aside and leans in the crook of your exposed neck, his breath hot against your skin. “You don't have to. I can just take what's rightfully mine,” he whispers and that last word sends a chill down your spine. You struggle in his grasp, trying to pull your neck away as you shout. “Don’t you DARE!”

He chuckles to himself. “Oh, don't you worry, I won’t bite unless you ask, very, very nicely.” He releases your face coldly but doesn’t move away from you. “But where are my manners? I almost forgot; I meant to invite you to eat.”

“I would rather starve,” you declare, leaning into that last word.

He sighs, seemingly growing tired of your attitude. “Fine, do as you wish,” he says, walking away from you. 

He leaves and you’re left on your own for Gods know how long. You spend those first hours trying to free yourself still and eventually give up when you start to feel the bruises on your wrists. You drift in and out of consciousness, fatigue affecting you more with every hour that passes. Without any source of light, it’s nearly impossible for you to tell how much time had gone by since the night you were captured. But, judging by the growling of your stomach, at least a full day had gone by, maybe even two. Your arms and legs were starting to give out on you as well, when the door before you opened to a spawn you didn't recognize. 

“Lord Ancunín invites you to dinner,” he says, composed.

“You can tell him to fuck off.” Your words don’t have the intended effect as they’re told with a shaky voice. In truth, you would kill for just a piece of bread right about now, but you would let yourself die before you complied to Astarion.

“I'm afraid that's not an option.”

Two more spawns appear behind him, and you instantly understand where this is going; this wasn't a request, it was an order. You're unshackled, although the spawns’ grips were so strong, you didn’t notice a difference, and were guided out of your cell. You reach an immense dining room, where Astarion has been waiting for you, a gold cup already to his lips. Knowing him, you suppose it’s either blood or fine wine, not that you care either way. You sink into the chair positioned at your end of the table, eyeing the food before you suspiciously. 

“You don’t seriously think I would poison you, do you?” He exclaims. “Oh no, quite the opposite; I only want what’s best for my precious pet.”

You scoff, briefly eyeing Astarion who is sitting opposite you before turning your attention to the contents between the two of you. You would lie to yourself if you said you weren't starving. The food laid out on the table looked delicious. The table was filled with different plates of food, each one looking better than the previous, making your stomach growl in appetite. You could practically drool all over the place, but you didn’t want to give Astarion the satisfaction of seeing you cave in. Not yet, not so soon. You wouldn’t let him get the best of you. 

Astarion quickly understands your intentions, with you staring right back at him, and he sighs, rolling his eyes. “It wouldn’t be wise to let yourself starve, pet. You wouldn’t want to waste all this delicious food, would you? Don’t be shy, at least take a bite.”

You're tempted, but against your better judgement, you ignore the mouth-watering meal, crossing your arms in defiance. He rolls his eyes, matching your attitude.

“As you wish.”

He snaps his fingers and the two spawns that brought you here move towards you, reaching for your arms. You stand up abruptly, pulling away from them and swiftly grabbing a knife from the table, standing in a defensive stance. Astarion speaks up, and you can practically hear the smile in his voice. “Trust me, you do not want to pick a fight here. My lovely assistants only want to bring you back to your cell for the night.”

“I know the way.”

“I insist.”

Your fatigue and hunger get the best of you; you simply don’t have the energy to fight. 

“Fine.” You drop the knife on the floor in defeat; even if you managed to land a blow, you had nowhere to run off to, and they would probably catch up to you anyway.

“That’s my girl.”

You hate the effect he still has on you. He knows just what to say to get to you.

You shoot him a deadly glare and feel your breathing quickening as your heart races with anger and your nails dig through your palms. He smiles pretentiously at you, and you’re overcome with thoughts of jumping onto him and punching his stupid face, making him regret everything he’s done to you these last few days. If it wasn’t for the awful twist in your gut, you might have. You shut your eyes closed as you look away, frowning, before you start walking away and the two vampire spawns accompany you to your cell, where you let yourself slouch over the rock wall. At least, they didn't restrain you again.

Once again alone with your thoughts, your mind drifts to your companions. Specifically Shadowheart; would she still be waiting for you? Would she be looking for you? You wish you had a way to contact her, let her know you need help. Your thoughts are interrupted by a stabbing feeling in your gut, again. Maybe you should’ve taken a bite, just a small one, just to keep you going… No, this was a game to him, you needed to hold on. The pain is good, you try to convince yourself, it’s a reminder that I’m alive, mortal, and I’ll fight to keep it that way as long as I can. 

Another wretched tenday passes and you avoid the food still. Every day follows the same routine: you’re woken up, Astarion’s spawns bring you to the large dining room where you’ll refuse to eat anything, until he gets bored of your attitude and you’ll be brought back to your cell, three times a day. You sense how Astarion is getting annoyed at you, and it strengthens your resolve. However, you hate to admit it, but you’re becoming weaker and weaker. You spend most of the passing days asleep, unable to think straight through your hunger, and too exhausted to do anything else. 

Finally, you cave in.

As you're brought to the dining room for dinner, your gaze falls upon your favourite meal, presented before you. For the first time in days, your façade breaks down, you have eyes for nothing else other than the meal in front of you. Had this been given to you on the first day, you would’ve gladly turned it down, but you didn’t have that kind of resolve anymore. Astarion snaps you out of your reverie by speaking up, and you raise your eyes to meet his.

“You had asked me what my favourite meal was and I couldn’t remember.” His tone is gentle. “It had been so long that everything tasted like garbage. Even wine tasted like pure vinegar. It frustrated me. That’s when you told me about yours: Baldurian Mash. You described it in such great detail, I could almost taste it myself.” He pauses, and you look up to meet his gaze. “I wanted to give you what I couldn't have. A chance to remember.” You can’t stop the tears from swelling up. You’re famished, completely drained, and mentally spent; this was the last straw. You grab the gold-plated utensil with a shaky hand and dig into the plate, shoving that first bite in your mouth. It’s even better than you remember it. You chew on that first bite longer than necessary, relishing the taste of the meal. It’s comforting, filling, it tastes like home; it’s everything you’ve wanted and more. You are so hungry that you end up ravishing the rest of it, barely taking the time to savour it properly past that first mouthful. Your belly growls, this time content with the food you finally gave it. After so many days resting on an empty stomach, you can't afford to eat anything else. You smile unconsciously as you lay back in your chair, satisfied with your meal, before getting up to leave, following the usual routine.

You stop in your tracks near the door and slightly turn around towards the ascendant, pausing before the words escape your lips.

“Thank you.”

As you walk away, you miss the devilish grin forming on his lips, as you curse yourself for granting him the satisfaction of your words.

You know the way to your cell by heart now; you would probably be able to reach it with your eyes closed. You walk in front of the spawns, your mind wandering to your evening, to him. He remembered that little detail about you that felt so insignificant back then, and he sounded so sincere. What if he cared all along? Had you been wrong about him all along? Did you miss out on the signs, too blinded by your guilt? Deep down, was he still your Astarion? The same questions keep repeating themselves over and over until one of the spawns speaks up, snapping you out of your own world.

“Excuse me, my lady?”

Lady? The mention of the title stops you in your tracks and you turn around to face them, a question mark visible on your face.

“Lord Ancunín requested that you be moved to this room from now on.”

The spawn walks towards a door you had never noticed previously and opens it, welcoming you in. You look at the other spawn who nods at you before you walk towards the room. Inside you find a large bed, draped in luxurious blue and gold silk sheets, a lit fireplace creating a warm light all around, and a large window, covered by black curtains. The room alone is almost as large as the one you shared with your companions back at the Elfsong. The walls were filled with books that you couldn’t make out exactly, and a cosy blue velvet chair sat between the fireplace and the window. You’re still taking everything in when one of the spawns speaks up.

“Please let us know if you are in need of anything. Have a good night, my lady.”

You barely notice them as they both leave, closing the door behind them, too enraptured by the sight of your new room. You're confused. Could this be a trap? Was he watching you from somewhere like he had been all those previous months? You look around quickly but can't make out much, as the fatigue from your first meal in days settles in. The bed in the middle of your room looks so comfortable after spending days sleeping against the cold rock ground. You reach for it and as you lay down, you feel yourself drift to sleep almost instantly.

-

Familiar faces that look like you

They tend to

Mess with my head just like it's deja vu

It's always

Right when I think I’m getting over you

That it feels

Like I have salt inside an open wound

[darlingweareatragedy]

mine to break, mine to save (part 1)

Part 2, Part 3

Obsession, Manipulation, Dark Peter Parker, Possessive Behavior, Hero x Villain, Stalker, Psychological Manipulation, Power Dynamics, Tension, Unhealthy Relationships, Mind Games, Angst, Captivity, Dub-Con, Non-Con

Summary ~ You were the one soul Peter couldn't give up on, and he would bind you to him if that’s what saving you required.

It started like any other job, a simple break-in, a quick hit, and a clean getaway. You’d done it a hundred times. Small break-ins and robberies that didn't catch anyone's eye, didn't catch his eye. By day you were a struggling college student trying to make ends meet, and at night you were one of the many thieves and pickpockets on the streets. You were ordinary, and you blended into the city. Blending in was the reason why you were never caught.

But today was different.

You had just been fired from another meager part-time job. No problem, you thought, you would get another one. You’d scrape by, you reassured myself, but the countless doors slammed in your face told you otherwise. It seemed like your luck had finally run out.

Maybe you were too ambitious with this new target. No you were desperate that night and you got sloppy. But you never expected him the red-and-blue blur that dropped in front of you like thunder crashing through the skyline.

“End of the line,” he said, his tone haughty, smug.

You smirked, hiding the sinking feeling in your gut. You might be outmatched, but you’re a fighter. You weren’t going down without a fight

He was fast, webs flying, cutting off your escape routes, but you were faster. Years of fending for yourself paid off. You moved like smoke, and he chased like fire. The scrapes and bruises he left on you didn’t faze you Nothing a little concealer couldn’t fix.

He was relentless. You were desperate.

But maybe some higher power took pity on a lowly thief like you, because just as you started to lose ground, he paused. A buzz in his earpiece, maybe. Some bigger crime needing the city’s savior. Whatever it was, he scoffed, golden brown eyes narrowing like you were nothing but dirt on his boots, and left in a whirl of red and blue.

And for a moment, you thought that was it.

But it wasn’t.

After that, he wouldn’t leave you alone.

Every crime, every robbery , every back-alley, you could feel him watching. He didn’t stop you not really. Not anymore. Sometimes you wondered if he even wanted to.

It wasn’t hard to figure out what was happening.

Peter Parker, because you had figured out who he was, of course, had a soft spot for you. Perhaps he thought you were redeemable.

It was almost cute.

Almost.

But you knew the type. The savior complex. The martyrdom. He probably told himself you were just confused. Misguided. A poor, broken girl with a tragic past waiting to be fixed by someone brave enough to care.

How romantic.

The real joke? He wasn't wrong but you didn’t need saving. You didn’t want it. You were good at relying just on yourself. Sure life was shitty but you were good at what you did. No, great at it. You didn’t need Spider-Man’s concern. You needed him distracted. Emotional.

Manipulatable.

Because a sick part of you liked it, the power. Having him, of all people, wrapped around your little finger. The golden boy, the hero of the city, tangled in you.

So you played your part. You flinched during your fights. You cried when he got too close. You spun your voice into something soft and fragile. You didn’t take him seriously, knowing he would let you get away.

But then…

Then, something shifted.

The next time you met him, his punches came harder. Slower, yes, like he was still trying to hold back, but not like before. He started webbing you tighter. Speaking less. Watching more.

He didn’t laugh anymore when you taunted him.

His voice changed. No longer the friendly neighborhood hero.

Just quiet. Measured. Obsessed.

He was closer now and that's when you panicked.

Too close.

That night, you panicked. You knew you couldn’t win. So you did what you always did, used what you had. The only card you had left. You let your eyes fill with tears, grabbed the arm that he had just slammed against the wall, and whispered

“You hurt me.”

He bought it. Of course he did.

And when he leaned in close, trying to apologize, you drove your knee into him and vanished again.

That’s when the fear crept in.

Real fear.

Because Peter Parker didn’t just want to stop you. He wanted to own you. And worst of all?

He thought it was love.

Now, every time you feel a tingle on the back of your neck, you wonder if it’s him, crawling along the wall behind you. Watching. Waiting. Planning.

You try to stay ahead. Try to keep your distance. But the thing about spiderwebs?

You don’t always see them until you’re already stuck.

[bittersweetresilience]

hehggehhe hi sunny…TOP FIVE RENJING MOMENTS/SCENES/DIALOGUE from your Own fics……or anywhere. anything you want forever. renjing

OH MY GOD ISA... I HOLD THIS QUESTION LIKE A PIECE OF TREASURE AND THEN RUN AROUND AND BITE YOUR ANKLES SO SO SO SO LOVINGLY... AND ALSO GET SLIGHTLY SHY BUT OMG I'M IN LOVE WITH YOU INFINITY

1. the ending of 大鱼 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

“You’re tired, aren’t you?” Yingxing murmurs, and his eyes are pale violets in the darkness, luminous. “You should go back to sleep.” Except Jing Yuan has a dream, sometimes. In the dream, he is falling. In the dream, he is turning into the sky, and there is no other ending. In the dream, he has been alone for seven hundred years, and this night is the real dream. Jing Yuan does not know which is which. All he knows is that he wants to live a little longer in the one where he has Yingxing.

the orgasm scene is also a good one but i'm on the floor forever about the ending. the culmination of the themes of dreams and suicidal thoughts and longing... this excerpt gives me emotional damage but i loved writing the whole scene because i finally got to come full circle with all of the extended imagery.

2. this bit from 起风了

Jing Yuan wants to say—even if you keep them, you can’t keep me. But he bites his tongue. He doesn’t want to make it real, not now, not here. Not when Blade is with him. Besides, for all Blade knows, Jing Yuan is just being self-defeating. Or maybe he does know. Maybe he knows and that’s why he came. Maybe he’s here to let him leave. “Aiya,” Jing Yuan says, around the sudden lump in his throat. “You still haven’t showered. Can we wait to argue until you’re clean?” Blade doesn’t move. “If I go, will they still be here when I come back?” Maybe Jing Yuan doesn’t know anything.

起风了 is in the same universe as 大鱼 and it features dom sub blade taking care of jing yuan while jing yuan is having suicidal thoughts so basically i eat this whole fic out sloppy style

3. this flashback from 浮生若梦 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

“But if I die first…” “Tch, why would you?” “Hey, being a Cloud Knight is dangerous, you know? Otherwise my parents wouldn’t have tried to stop me.” “…fine then. What happens if you die first?” “Yingxing-gege, you have to come see me.”

i think you can already guess what has happened... this little section is placed right before blade enters the sanctum where he will see jing yuan, before he understands what he will see, and let's just say, that makes me feel SICK

4. this scene from and i get the feeling that i'm living

“I suppose it’s all right if you stay, then,” Jing Yuan said, and his laugh was a little melancholy. He hadn’t coughed all day, but he did after that sentence, smothering it in his sleeve. “It won’t be much longer, anyway.” Something tightened in Blade at that, some sort of resistance. Was that why Jing Yuan had insisted they walk around? As some sort of last meeting? The way his gaze had been so slow to part from the bustling stalls of Aurum Alley, the paper kites they flew in front of the Palace of Astrum, the starry skies of the Divination Commission—had he been delivering his farewells to the home that he would live and die in? Tightening again, and Blade found that there was a reason for him to be here after all. That he couldn’t accept this.

it's a hanahaki fic hey why are all of these major character death fics and i have. feelings. about blade being unable to accept that jing yuan will die like this and deciding to take him away so he can at least fulfill all of his wishes and allow him to feel happy and free before it happens.

5. IPC RENJING AU

“If you keep that up, you won’t be able to afford our apartment,” Blade says. “What an unthinkable situation. I’ll have to depend on you for everything.” Blade huffs a laugh. Low and short, but it trickles like honey from the earpiece all the way down to Jing Yuan’s fingertips.

SO AFTER ALL OF THAT TRAGEDY HOW ABOUT SOME DOMESTIC WORKPLACE ROMANCE... they are literally so sweet in this au i need to cry about it. i just yoinked a random dialogue from the fic because i don't have a particular favorite. the entire au is my favorite.

THANK YOU FOR COMING TO MY TED TALK I LOVE YOU

[multi-fandoms-posts]

Manipulation and Love

X Men Masterlist

X Men Masterlist 2

It’s a cold night in Berlin. The streets are quiet, with only a few cars moving through the foggy alleys. David Percival leans in a dark doorway, watching the house across the street. His eyes fixate on the figure stepping out of the door: Y/N, his ex-girlfriend. Even after all these months without her, he has never stopped loving her. The breakup shattered him, but now he has a plan—a risky plan to show her that she still needs him.

He glances quickly at his watch. The moment is drawing near.

He takes out his phone and dials a number. "It’s time," he says calmly, then puts the phone away. He remains in the shadows, his eyes locked on Y/N as she walks down the street, unaware of his presence. She looks thoughtful, lost in her own world. Perfect.

---

Y/N walks down the dark street, her hands buried deep in the pockets of her coat. She just needed some fresh air; the silence of her empty home was becoming suffocating. Since her breakup with David, she’s been trying to move on, but it doesn’t always work. Sometimes, she misses him—his presence, the way he always protected her when they were together.

Suddenly, she hears footsteps behind her. Quick. Urgent. A shiver runs down her spine, but she keeps walking, now a little faster. The footsteps get closer. Panic rises in her chest, and before she can turn around, she’s grabbed from behind.

"Don’t scream," a deep voice hisses in her ear. A masked man pulls her into a dark alley.

Y/N can’t think clearly. Her heart races, and she struggles to breathe. But before the attacker can do anything else, another voice cuts through the night, a familiar one.

"Let her go!"

With a swift motion, the attacker is yanked away from her, and Y/N stumbles against the wall. Her vision is blurry, but she recognizes the figure throwing himself at the man. It’s David. He strikes hard, with a precision and ferocity he perfected as an agent. The fight is short and brutal, but it’s clear who has the upper hand. The attacker is thrown to the ground, and David lands a final blow, leaving the man motionless.

David is breathing heavily as he turns to Y/N, his eyes filled with concern. "Are you okay?" he asks quickly, moving towards her.

Y/N stands trembling against the wall, her eyes wide with shock. She can barely speak, but she nods. "What... what are you doing here?" she stammers finally.

"I saw you and knew something wasn’t right," David says, glancing briefly at the unconscious man on the ground. "I couldn’t leave you alone."

Y/N tries to steady her breathing. Her heart is still pounding, but amid the fear, she feels something else—a familiar spark suddenly igniting inside her. She thought those feelings had long passed, but now, with David protecting her again, she feels the warmth and trust she once shared with him.

David sees the change in her eyes. For a moment, he stands still, then gently reaches for her hand. "It’s over. You’re safe now."

Y/N hesitates before taking his hand. "Thank you..." she whispers, her voice shaky. "I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t..."

David interrupts her. "You don’t have to thank me. I’ll always be here if you need me." His voice is calm but firm. He tries to keep his emotions in check, but his gaze gives him away.

Y/N looks up at him, and though she’s still confused and a little scared, she feels the connection she’s been denying for so long. "Will you... walk me home?" she asks softly.

David hesitates for a moment, then nods. "Of course," he says, and together they head back to her house. The streets are quiet again, but between them, an unspoken tension lingers.

---

At her front door, David stops. "You’re safe now," he says, turning slightly as if to leave.

But before he can go, Y/N grabs his arm. "David, wait..." Her voice is soft, almost unsure. She lowers her gaze before looking up at him again. "Could you... stay here tonight?"

David stands still for a moment, surprised by her question. But then a crooked smile forms on his face. He quickly hides it and turns fully towards her, trying to maintain his composure. "Are you sure?" he asks gently, his eyes searching hers.

Y/N nods slowly. "Yes... I’m sure." Her voice is quiet, but there’s a vulnerability in her eyes that she hasn’t felt in a long time.

David steps closer, his eyes piercing into hers, and without another word, he follows her inside. The silence between them is no longer oppressive but full of unspoken possibilities—a second chance at something they both thought was lost.

As they enter the living room, David looks around briefly. "I’ll sleep on the couch," he says calmly, though inside, he feels a longing to be closer to her.

Y/N hesitates for a moment, her eyes darting nervously around the room before she finally says quietly, "You can sleep in the bed... if you want."

David looks at her, surprised. He can see in her eyes that she wants his closeness, even if she can barely bring herself to say it. Inside, he’s triumphant, but he doesn’t show it. Instead, he simply nods and says softly, "If that’s what you want."

Y/N smiles slightly and leads him down the hallway. David follows, his heart beating faster. As he walks behind her, he knows his plan has worked perfectly. She wants him back—and he’s ready to do whatever it takes to reignite that spark.

David quietly lies down in bed, and as Y/N settles next to him, he feels the warmth of her body close to his. Inwardly, he smiles with satisfaction.

The morning slowly breaks, and the first rays of sunlight make their way through the bedroom curtains. The room is quiet, with only the soft breathing of two people to be heard. David lies on his back, deep in sleep, his arms wrapped tightly around Y/N. Their heads rest close together, and his hand is protectively placed on her hip, as if he doesn't want to let her go—not now, and perhaps never again.

Y/N slowly awakens, blinking into the gentle morning light, immediately feeling the warmth radiating from David. For a moment, she remains still as the situation sinks in. David is holding her close, so familiar and yet so different after all the months of separation. She lies in his arms, wrapped in this sense of security that she had missed for so long. Her skin tingles slightly under his touch.

Y/N shifts slightly, careful not to wake him, and looks up at him. He is sleeping soundly, his breathing steady, with a peaceful expression on his face that she hasn’t seen in a long time. A soft smile creeps onto her lips as she watches him. In this moment, everything feels so right, as if time had taken a step backward.

She never thought she would feel like this again—so safe, so close to him. The pain and the separation seem far away in this instant, and all that matters is the moment they are now sharing.

Without thinking, she snuggles closer to him, her forehead lightly touching his chest, and she breathes in his familiar scent. She closes her eyes as she feels the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath her head. The warmth of his arms around her gives her a feeling she has missed for so long, the safety only he could provide.

David, half-asleep, feels her snuggle closer, and a smile spreads across his face, though he keeps his eyes closed. He instinctively pulls her nearer, as if wanting to protect her from the whole world. Inside, he is relieved. His plan had worked out better than he could have imagined. But in this moment, that doesn’t matter. What matters is that she is here with him, and that the spark between them has come alive once more.

Y/N remains still in his arms, savoring this moment. The morning is quiet, and in David’s embrace, she finally feels whole again, as if everything that ever happened between them has faded into the background.

She knows they still have many things to work out, but now, in his arms, it feels as if everything could be okay, as if this new beginning is possible.

[calaisreno]

Clues

This is how Sherlock Holmes seduces me, with long fingers and murmured Italian, with midnight violin and inexplicable clues.

May 19: Clues

Note: This one is dedicated to @totallysilvergirl and @keirgreeneyes for their remark: "@calaisreno could make a compelling story out of a drugstore receipt." Well, I tried!

“What do you make of that?” 

The long, thin fingers of Sherlock Holmes dangle before my eyes, holding a slip of paper. 

A clue, I think. 

He drops the paper in my lap and I examine it. A receipt, from the corner shop. Cigarettes, £6.51.

He’s muttering to himself in Italian, dropping pieces of clothing on the furniture and floor. The door to his bedroom closes. 

This is how Sherlock Holmes seduces me, with long fingers and murmured Italian, with midnight violin and inexplicable clues.

Clues. It means something, this piece of paper. It’s always something like that, insignificant to the point where an ordinary man (me) dismisses it, only to see it reappear hours or days later, the key piece of evidence that unravels the mystery. 

I am, unfortunately, ordinary. To me, it’s just a receipt. 

Sometimes Holmes takes my hand in his long, white fingers. He kisses the knuckles, and looks up at me, pale eyes through dark lashes. And he murmurs, alkaline. 

Later, I’ll know what it meant. We’ll be standing around a body, and Holmes will have his pocket lens out, examining the curtains. Lestrade will be impatiently shifting from foot to foot, wondering why he’s let a madman into his crime scene. And Holmes will say, The sole of a shoe is like a passport. And he will explain.

Solutions are for explaining. Clues are not. And explanations are rarely forthcoming when there are still more clues to be found. 

Just once, I’d like to be holding the final clue, to produce it when he’s putting it all together, to hand it to him with a smile. To see his face light up, hear him exclaim, Watson, you’ve done it!

But I am ordinary. 

I hold the paper between my short, ordinary fingers, wondering what it could mean. 

When Holmes comes out of his room, he is wearing a long caftan and a head wrap, and smells of vetiver. “Don’t wait up for me,” he says as he leaves.

Like a soldier at the front, I sleep lightly on the sofa, waiting for the summons. If inconvenient, come all the same. 

It’s never inconvenient; I live for such moments. 

He doesn’t return until the following day, late. This time he’s wearing a flat cap and dungarees.

“Drayman?” I ask.

“Plumber’s assistant.” 

He accepts the tea I make, takes two sips, stares into the void for some minutes, and goes into his room, still holding the cup. 

I know that look. The game will soon be afoot. At a moment’s notice, we’ll be off— running down an alley, cornering our prey. I fall asleep on the sofa, dressed for action. 

When I wake, he is gone again. His bed has not been slept in. I berate myself for sleeping deeply while Sherlock Holmes has been tracking dangerous criminals. 

I have put his dinner plate in the refrigerator, washed the dishes, and looked for clues. His deerstalker hat is on the floor beneath his chair. The remains of a cigarette lie crushed in the ashtray. There are crumbs on the table. A half-drunk cup of tea sits balanced precariously on the mantel. 

The call eventually comes. We jump into the waiting cab and race to the crime scene. 

He’s pacing, humming. My excitement builds. I can see that his mind has almost broken the puzzle. 

It’s the moment, I think. 

I offer it to him, the final clue, the receipt. I have no idea what it means, but I’m sure it’s the missing piece. I’ll hand it to him, and his face will go slack with surprise for a moment, and then he’ll seize the paper and tell us what it means. And his fingers will brush mine, and I’ll know that I have— even if just for a moment— impressed him. 

I hold it out. He stares, reaches out a trembling hand and takes it from me. Our eyes meet. His shine, and strong emotion fills them with tears. 

“You were right, Watson,” he whispers. “You’ve always been right, dear friend.”

I don’t know how, but I have done it. For once, I have handed him the solution to the case. 

“Do you see?” He holds the receipt, his long fingers trembling. “It’s outrageous! Six-fifty for a pack of cigarettes! My God! How can I afford this habit?” He sighs. “You’re right, Watson. I must quit smoking.”

Tagging: @elwinglyre @meetinginsamarra @raina-at @lisbeth-kk. @momma2boys @7-percent @jrow @helloliriels @the-reading-lemon @peanitbear @bertytravelsfar @thetimemoves @copperplatebeech @mydogwatson @thegildedbee

[sourb0i]

What a cool way to use a colour prompt!! I'm giving you number 1, with the prompt "evening" and if you feel like it (but totally don't have to if it's not up your alley) I'd love to see some Dracula stuff :)

I really liked Dracula! I usually keep up with Dracula Daily, although I've fallen off the wagon a bit this year. Also, the wordcount for this got a bit away from me lol.:

It was evening. The sun stretched deep purple fingers out from behind the mountains in one last, desperate attempt at daylight. A lone figure stumbled through the woods, wild-eyed and weary. His hands were raw and covered in cuts, the nails ripped ragged. It felt like Jonathan had been walking for days, but the castle still loomed high in the cliffs behind him. He pressed on. Occasionally he raised his fingers to the thin, rectangular shape tucked away in the pocket over his heart. He couldn’t expect to survive, not out here, not alone, not with those monsters no doubt close on his scent. But at least he would not disappear. Mina would know what happened to him. Even if she didn’t believe it, she would know. 

It was evening. Mina caressed the petals of the rose Jonathan had bought her before he left. She’d dried and pressed it, and its once soft, lush petals were now dry as parchment. The deep red hue had faded to a dusky wine which made her blush nearly the same colour whenever she thought of the man who’d given it to her. She’d received a letter from him just that morning, saying he’d left the castle where he was staying and was nearly halfway home already. Her heart should have leaped for joy at the news. Instead, it sank with an uneasy dread. The letter was in Jonathan’s handwriting, but they were not his words. In all her time knowing him, Mina had never known him to be terse or sharp, at least not to her. There was nothing in his letter to raise her suspicion, and yet she couldn’t help feeling certain that something was wrong. Perhaps Lucy was right; Mina was working herself too hard, allowing her emotions to get the better of her. A holiday on the coast might be just the thing to refresh her spirits. Pressing her rose back into its hiding place in her bible, Mina pulled out a fresh piece of paper and penned her acceptance to Lucy’s invitation, and the sooner the better.

It was evening. The best time to catch flies, the best flies, the fattest flies. Fat flies made fat spiders. Renfield eagerly watched the windowsill, waiting for an unsuspecting victim. He’d saved some of his food to spread on the stone, which was sticky with the viscera of his previous meals. Renfield licked his fingers, salty and warm, as he waited. It was all a game of patience. Beyond, the late sun darked the smokey London sky into a dreary brown. It was rare to catch a glimpse of the real sun, the real sky. Sometimes Renfield forgot what colour it really was. It seemed like it had always been brown, or grey, or black. Those were the colours of life, of thousands of lives packed together like wriggling, writhing sardines. So much life, untouchable from his window. Renfield had to make do with flies and spiders, until his Master came to free him. His Master, who was perhaps the only truly living thing in the world. He alone had mastered the consumption of life. But Renfield could learn. He, too, could consume life, and perhaps live forever as his Master did. He just had to be patient.

It was evening. Lucy sat before her mirror, absently brushing her hair. Just this morning, her mother had said she was looking a little pale, and perhaps a trip to the seaside might be in order. Lucy paused brushing to ghost her thumb over her cheek. It was light, and plump, and a fine pink like a springtime peach. Anything less would not do for Arthur. It wasn’t as though Lucy had ever expected him to court anyone else, but still she felt she must present her best for him. Her dear Arthur, who she would marry soon. The idea still felt like a dream, that might be snatched from her upon waking at any moment. But no, the dream was real, and she would hold tight to it with both hands. Soon enough she would have her Arthur, and Mina would have her Jonathan, and they could all live happily together as the closest of friends. In truth, there was hardly anything more that Lucy could ask for.

Here's a link to the original prompt, if anyone else wants to send one in!