#this does not reveal anything about me at all

[heavenorhella2001]

This had never occurred to me way back when when I first watched playthroughs of the game/played it myself, but;

Seeing this post made me remember Max's nightmare, when she was trapped in her own mind/a broken version of reality.

And seeing this now?

Max definitely has PTSD.

Everyone always primarily discusses/ focuses on Chloe's trauma (which is understandable. I'll always be a Chloe defender and don't want to downplay her trauma by any means.)

But, unfortunately, Max's is overlooked.

Now, a lot of people might view this skeptically, question the idea of Max having PTSD. To many, it might seem like Max doesn't really have any lasting form of major trauma after the events of the game. Maybe she really was content and at peace and happy-go-lucky. (I've always scoffed at that scene at Chloe's funeral, when Max smiles at the butterfly.) And I'll admit, within the context of the story maybe we aren't supposed to think so. But if that's the case I just have to assume that's due to the developing team's lack of knowledge, experience with mental health and how it works, the impact things like this have on someone. Not that they are coming from a malicious place, of course. But very rarely does a person 'get it' unless they've been through it themselves. The average person simply won't understand.

But if you see everything I've described here as it's laid out, it makes total sense;

Let's talk about Jefferson. He is just one of many elements in the game contributing to Max's trauma. He was her teacher, someone she looked up to, respected, and was supposed to be able to trust. She truly felt safe around him. It's implied she had a crush on him. But her image of him completely shattered. After the truth about him was revealed, she was no longer able to trust her own judgement of people, her perception of reality.

He drugged her when she was vulnerable, and she was helpless to watch as he shot and killed the love of her life right in front of her. He kidnapped her, and she was thrown from the frying pan right into the fire. When she woke up she was tied up in a basement, helpless, and he had burned all her photos. Not only precious memories, but also one of her only means of going back and fixing things. He then took photos of her, over and over, this went on for who knows how long, while she was drugged, tied up and helpless, in order to satisfy his own perversions. Throughout, he mocked and tormented her.

Then, let's go into what happened with Chloe. Having to watch her best friend, the girl she loved, die over and over and over again. Max felt responsible for fixing it, preventing it, because she was the only one who possibly could. She would blame herself, think of it as a failure on her part each time Chloe died.

After watching her die in various ways, so many times, I'm sure Max questioned if she really even could save Chloe- or if Chloe was supposed to die from the start, and the universe was determined to restore the balance, no matter what Max did or how hard she tried.

And then there's Kate. This could go one of two ways depending on your choices, one of which is infinitely worse and more traumatizing, but either way it would definitely have haunted Max and left an impact on her.

Imagine how you would feel, knowing one of your closest friends was being bullied. Knowing they have been drunk/drugged and taken advantage of at a party. Yet instead of anyone coming forward, doing the right thing and helping Kate out of that situation, everyone at the party instead weaponized it, used it against her, slut-shamed her even though she wasn't in her right mind, was barely even conscious and was in no way able to consent to anything that was happening. Not that slut-shaming her would have in any way been okay or excusable even if Kate was acting of her own volition. Knowing that, even though you don't agree/don't identify with that, that your friend is deeply religious and clings to faith as a means of comfort. Knowing that she feels like a failure, that she feels like she's betrayed her faith, everything she stands for, and her family, even though she was in fact a victim in her situation. Being able to read letters, watching her family victim-blame her, hide behind their beliefs as a means to tear down someone they should feel obligated to protect, to support. Watching your friend be alienated by everyone around her, including her own family. Watching the school bullies write obscenities about your friend on the walls, and in the bathroom, make jabs at her and taunt her at every possible opportunity. Your friend's light has begun to dim, she starts pulling away from you, begins hiding away in her room more, which now feels like a dark, oppresive void. You know your friend is depressed, and you're trying to be supportive in any way you can, but there's a distance building between you you feel you can't bridge.

Then it happens. She kills herself/tries to kill herself. In front of you, and everyone who tormented her. Even then, the people who hurt her have no shame, laughing and recording her when she's in crisis. You begin to question and blame yourself, blaming youself for not noticing something was severely wrong earlier, not recognizing the impending signs for what they were. You want to help your friend, to save her, but your powers at failing you at the worst possible time. You only get one chance to do this, like everyone else, and you have to do it the right way.

If Max managed to talk Kate down, that's still an instense emotional weight, still a serious event to work through and process.

If Kate jumps…well…

Max feels like a failure. Like she contributed to Kate's death just as much as everyone else. Like she may as well have pushed Kate off that ledge herself. Not only watching your friend die in front of you, but knowing that it was self-inflicted in a moment of desperation, that they chose to do so and your words had no effect…

Now, the end of the game. Depending on what you choose, Max either has to to feel an immeasurable weight on her conscience, the responsibility for the destruction of the town where she was born. Where she grew up. Where she has countless memories, despite its' faults. The deaths of almost everyone there she's ever known.

Including (especially) Joyce.

The guilt of feeling like she took Chloe's mom away from her too, after Chloe had already lost her dad.

Oh. And that reminds me.

It was an incredible miracle, Max discovering her ability to go back through time via photos. Being able to go back 5 years, to when she and Chloe were only 13, before all the horror had happened, and save William. The sense of sheer relief, happiness and accomplishment she felt. She felt like a hero.

Only for it to all blow up in her face in the worst possible way.

Seeing Chloe, now a total shell of her former self. Completely disabled, and paralyzed. Helpless. Unable to live on her own. Seeing firsthand the emotional and financial stress William and Joyce are going through as a result of the accident. Chloe having so little quality of life that she pleads with Max to kill her, because she can't even do it herself.

(This is not my narrative or opinion on Chloe's situation, by the way. This is how it's portrayed. Quality of life, determining whether your life is worth living to due a life-changing accident or consequent disability is the choice of the invidual whom it effects. I'm not saying that anyone in Chloe's situation, who is paralyzed would inherently have no quality of life or no reason to live. That really depends on the invidiual, what that person needs in order to truly live and thrive, whether that person has family and friends and an emotional/practical support system in their life, etc. For Chloe, for me, and for many other people, though not all, living that kind of life would not be worth it.)

Max, depending on your choices, having to kill Chloe, to choose the merciful path, allow Chloe to exercise her autonomy in a world in which she can no longer do so and put her out of her misery. Knowing that she's doing for Chloe what she'd want someone to do for her if she were in that situation, yet still full of pain and regrets.

Max then having to go back and undo it all. Allow William to die again. Watch Chloe experience that horror and trauma again, knowing now she could've prevented it. But at what cost?

Lastly, if you chose to let Chloe go. To let her die.

That makes it immeasurably worse in my opinion.

The week she and Chloe spent together, reconnecting and rebulding their friendship, everything they went through together, would essentially never have happened.

Chloe, in this timeline, died alone in a bathroom. She never recieved any sort of closure, never got to know what happened to Rachel, questioning if Rachel perhaps just abandoned her, similarly to how Max did.

She never got to resolve things with Max, never heard from her again. She never got to know that Max still loved her, still cared about her and thought of her, but was too scared and guilty to reach out.

She never got to patch up things with her mom, or with David.

Everything Max went through. Everything she experienced.

To recap:

Having to watch her best friend, the woman she loves, die over and over again, feeling helpless, trapped in this endless, hellish cycle of death.

Being lulled into a false sense of security, betrayed and abducted by someone she thought she could trust, someone she looked up to.

Witnessing firsthand Kate's suicide/attempt, feeling like she failed her.

Being forced to let William die again, and force Joyce and Chloe to suffer that loss again.

Having to watch Joyce mourn her only daughter, after already losing her husband. Knowing she could've prevented it.

Everything that happened would still exist, but only in Max's mind.

She has no one she could ever confide in, talk to, or open up about it.

Chloe, for her, was that person.

No one would believe her, albeit understandably.

It's implied her powers vanish after she goes back that final time to let Chloe die.

She'd have no way to prove her story was true.

Carrying the weight of that burden, that knowledge and trauma, alone, would drive anyone insane.

Feeling like everything she went through, all the efforts she made to keep Chloe alive, were pointless.

I don't believe there is any way Max could be okay after that.

She'd be a hollow shell, just going through the motions. Totally disconnected from the world and the people around her. (Understandably. Who the hell could she connect to? Who would understand her?) Everyone at Blackwell, and their student lives and petty drama would feel so insignificant. So incredibly stupid and shallow to Max after what she's been through.

In fact, I've always felt - years after the events of the game, were you to choose to let Chloe die - that Max likely killed herself.

Over time, she probably began to question herself, to feel crazy, and begin wondering whether any of what happened, actually did, or if it was just something her mind created.

Max's trauma, her thoughts and emotions in regards to all of this are reflected in this part of the game, her mental breakdown. You can see her self-loathing, the way she blames and criticizes herself, in her interactions with herself and in her distorted journal entries.

Anyway. I never really liked Max all that much as a protagonist.

I thought she was a pushover, a little shallow, cared too much about what people like Victoria thought of her. I thought it was pretty unforgivable the way she ghosted Chloe, at the most traumatic, formative time of Chloe's life, when she had just lost the most important person in her life, besides Max. I understand anxiety, feeling awkward, helpless and flailing in that situation and not knowing what to say or do to make it better, but it just doesn't matter to me. Nothing excuses that.

However…

Max, did ultimately (well, depending on your choice at the ending,) make it right.

This has given me some perspective, and I have a lot more empathy for her now.

     you thought you could control everybody and everything, huh?      —   twist time around your fingers?

[cupidhoons]

+1 new notification from cupidhoons

( 엔하이픈 ) ─── PRESENTS ⟡ how boyfriend! enhypen would react to you saying that you're their present

enhypen x separate! reader

fluff ⋅ 6OO

n. merry christmas eve to you all 😼

HEESEUNG would definitely be amused. He would look at you with confusion when you suddenly appear in the living room in front of him with wrapping paper around your body, and then would just laugh at how silly you look—but he'd be so sweet about it.

“You’re saying you’re the best present? Not going to argue with that,” he says, pulling you into a warm hug. “But does this mean I can keep unwrapping you forever?”

JAY would be extremely cocky. So cocky, in fact he even claims that he “doesn't need” the rest of the gifts he received from everyone else, just you. He definitely teases you afterwards too, calling you “my gift” for the rest of the day.

“Oh, so you’re my big present, huh?” he says teasingly, raising an eyebrow. He leans in, wispering to you in a hushed voice, “could my gift give me a kiss by any chance?”

JAKE would burst out into giggles. His eyes would twinkle in amusement and adoration for you when you enter the room. But, as much as he giggles, he would be so touched and would want to spend time with you the rest of the day at home.

“Aww, that’s so cheesy, but I love it,” he says. He pulls you into a long, tight, hug as he showers you with kisses, saying “Best. Gift. Ever,” between them.

SUNGHOON would try so hard to be nonchalant, only giving you a small smirk and making teasing remarks about the way you wrapped yourself in gift paper. Though, as much as he teases, he secretly enjoys it, and you would catch him cheesing over you from afar.

“Is that so? Lucky me.” he says with a smirk, acting as though his ears weren't turning pink. But, eventually, he'd pull you close and mutter, “I wouldn’t trade you for anything.”

SUNOO would act dramatic when you reveal the big surprise. He'd gasp and put a hand over his mouth while you stood in front of him. You would see the way his eyes sparkle as he pretends to inspect you like an actual gift.

“You’re my present?! I must be the luckiest person alive!” he says with a playful sparkle in his eyes. He pulls you into a hug, kissing your cheek. “You really are the best present I could ask for.”

JUNGWON would simply let out a small laugh. He would laugh, but his eyes would twinkle with full love and affection when you enter the room. His dimples would come out and he would be smiling so hard to the point where it hurts. He feels like he fell in love one hundred times harder than before.

“You really know how to make me smile,” he says, shaking his head in amusement. He gently takes your hands and says, “If you’re my present, then I’ll take care of you like the most important thing I have.”

RIKI would act cool about it, like he doesn't even care. His cool demeanor would be so annoying to the point where you just wanna smack that dumb look off his face when you see it. Though, the whole demeanor doesn't last very long, as he eventually caves in and confesses that you're the best present he got.

“Oh, so you’re my present? That’s kind of bold of you,” he says teasingly. He looks at you for a good 10 seconds before breaking in to a grin, giggling to himself how cute you are. “Okay, fine. Best present ever. Can I open this gift now?”

[mjbarrosart]

My Dragon Prince Boards season 7, episode 705, part 2: The Moonberry Surprise.

It's true, the Moonberry Surprise moment, it is my fault

I hope you can forgive me for my sins. Hahahaha.

Ok, let's talk about this little sequence. But first, some... context?

Ok, so, Dragon Prince was my first job as Storyboard Artist, before coming to DPR I was working as a Storyboard Revisionist in Lego NinjaGo Crystalized. So I applied to Dragon Prince with not hopes that they will hire me, and when the offered my the job I was in awe.

So basically, I arrived to work in season 4 as a Junior Storyboard Artist. They gave me little sequences during season 4 (I was mostly helping my unit director with revisions) they gave me more during season 5 and 6, working on my strengths, emotional moments, long talking sequences and some combat. You know what was not there? comedy, because it was not one of the things I knew well how to do. But after a year and a half working in the show, I was seasoned enough to be a proper Storyboard Artist, not a rookie anymore. So they finally assigned me a comedy sequence.

I was terrified. Today after years in the industry, I can say that I am not scared of comedy anymore. But when I read the script and I realized that they were expecting a big comedy moment from me , I knew I was in trouble. But as they say, "you fake it until you make it" I took a deep breath and smile to my unit director like "Of course I can do this!"

But ok, lets talk about the sequence. We start nice, with the moon fam enjoying some time together. Was an opportunity to work with Runaan and Ethari, and that is always cool! I love how Ethari is just happy of everyone being there, and Runaan just wants to kill Callum (in an affectionate way, like he is just a protective dad, you know, a no nonsense dude)

So yeah, they talk a little and Rayla handles Callum a slice of Moonberry Surprise. Is like this almost mythical dessert that is said tastes like nothing else in all Xadia. And Callum is so excited to try it!

So, the script did not call for anything you saw in that sequence. The script instructed to reveal the Moonberry Surprise like something out of this world, and then have Callum almost having an epiphany when he tries it. My first idea was to have Calum almost levitating on his seat while eating it, while the rest of the moon fam looked at them in confusion. But during the launch of the episode (this is the stage where directors and in the case of DPR writers, tell SB artist what they want for every sequence we will board, we pitch ideas, and so on) was more clear to me that they were expecting something more of an "out of this world experience". Like the "I love books" moment that Callum had on season 5, episode 2, but on steroids.

So I was ok, lets make it as trippy as possible. So we have this fast zoom in into Callums face, that lead us into this "dimension of flavor" he is being transported to.

And he opens his eyes and he is floating in this space of color and flavor, his spirit being lifted by this experience.

He is experiencing all this flavors, eating this huge blue berries (this was my Unit director idea, Thanks Katherine!!), when something catches his eye. A figure, looking to him from the above, almost like a god.

And Callums looks up, revealing... this:

So, I have a really particular sense of humor (not unique, because I feel a lot of people share it, particular because really specific things make me laugh a lot). I was born late 80's grew up on the 90's with all the weird cartoons and anime of that time. For me adding muscular arms to things is the best joke ever.

This is peak humor to me:

So I was like, what if, Callum does the Titanic spinning thing, with a muscular slice of pie? So I did that... And I was SURE they will reject it.

So I finished my roughs, and I sent them to my Unit Director. She was "this is so stupid" (in the best way) so, she added some placeholder music, and send it for review from the directors, while both of us were expecting to have it rejected.

A couple of days after, our Storyboards Supervisor was like "WHO DID THE MOONBERRY SURPRISE SEQUENCE??" And I was like "me?", and he was like "Aaron LOVED IT!" and I was like "?????" so, yeah, was approved.

So yeah, that is my legacy, I guess. I am Runaan in this shot:

So well, those are all my sequences in episode 705.

Sorry again for being responsible for the birth of that thing. But that is my son now, and I kinda love him, even if he looks like that....

Next post will be my last! So yeah, stay tunned for my last post about my boards in The Dragon Prince, episode 708!

[missadangel]

The Heart of Rome (Marcus Acacius x OC)

All Chapters List

XIX. Trouble (Smut!18+!MDNI)

Nulla sunt arcana quae tempus non indicat.

There are no secrets that time does not reveal.

                                                                  J.R.

"Hanno?" You stammered slightly. It was strange to see him standing before you after such a long time and even more confusing to feel uncertain about how to respond. "Is that really you?"

He smiled, displaying his familiar smile.

"I think so."

That was exactly the sort of response he'd give.

"There he is!"

A man shouted from behind, momentarily distracting you. Hanno narrowed his eyes and swore.

"Get him! Quickly!”

Before you could even think, Hanno grabbed your arm and whispered in your ear, "I'll be at the popina (wine bar) near the gladiator school tomorrow." He took a quick look over your shoulder.

Geta looked alarmed when he saw the men running towards you. "Aurelia! Protect the princess!"

"I have to go now. I'll wait for you there, Aya."

You opened your mouth, but you couldn't say anything; you just watched him running down the street, getting away. The men stormed past you and ran after him, while Geta and the guards came to your side in a hurry.

"My lady! Are you alright?"

Geta grabbed your shoulders. "Did he do something to you?"

You shook your head.

At that moment, the sound of horses neighing echoed around.

"General!" one of the guards called out, looking backwards.

You both looked over there.

Marcus jumped off his horse, eyes narrowed, which made you nervous. He was looking at Geta's hands on your shoulders as he walked quickly towards you, so Geta swiftly removed his hands from your shoulders.

"Acacius, you are very intuitive."

But he did not look at him, his eyes fixed on yours. You smiled at him, though it was weak.

"My lady, I was not aware of your intention to visit here." His voice was filled with curiosity. He turned his eyes to Geta.

"I have asked her to accompany me here."

You were about to answer yourself when the men who had just chased after Hanno turned around with him, grabbing both arms. Geta stopped them with a raised hand.

They bowed to him.

"Who is this man? How dare you touch the princess? Speak!"

You looked at Geta, getting mad at him for mentioning 'touching thing' in front of Marcus. Just as you expected, he clenched his jaw, tensing up.

“I said speak!”

Hanno didn't answer, he just glared at him menacingly, which made them even more tense.

"Emperor Geta asked you a question!" Marcus snarled.

"He escaped from the gladiator school, Your Majesty. We've been looking all over for him." One of them replied.

"He's from the colonies, your highness. He only speaks his native language." The other one explained.

Your eyes widened as Marcus gripped the handle of his sword.

"He meant no harm," you said, your voice cracking.

"Gladiator?" Geta tilted his head and studied his face. He then looked at them and yelled. "How could you let him escape and roam free on the streets? You useless bastards!"

Hanno looked at Marcus in a slightly odd way; there was a clear sense of tension between them.

"What the hell are you waiting for?" Geta gestured with his hands. "Get him out of here now!"

You placed both hands on Marcus' as he gripped his sword. "I'm alright," you reassured him.

Your touch had the usual calming effect on him. But his expression didn't soften until the men pushed Hanno into the prisoner's carriage. Hanno gazed at you from within the cage as you watched his departure, and you struggled to keep a straight face while trying to suppress your feelings. Marcus looked at you, examining your face. "Are you certain you're alright?" he asked, knowing you well enough to read your facial expressions correctly.

You smiled and nodded. "I am, really. But I thought you were in the barracks," you said, glancing at Octavius behind him.

"I was..." Marcus said then turned his gaze to Geta. "There is an urgent matter. I need to take you to Palatine Hill."

Geta narrowed his eyes. "Is it about that bastard cousin of mine?”

Marcus glanced at the children gathered around you, and the people looking at you with curious eyes. "I think you'd better see for yourself when you get there. Shall we?"

"I simply hope that one day will pass without incident! Just one!" Geta grumbled as he walked with the guards to the carriage.

Marcus smirked then he turned towards you. "I believe you would like to come with us, my lady."

It wasn't a question or a request, but the way he was acting made you curious.

"I'd like to come with you, General, if that's alright. It's been over a month since I paid my respects to my father anyway."

"As you wish, my princess.” He was usually a bit hesitant about you going there, but not today, apparently. He helped you onto the carriage and winked at you before walking over to his own horse and getting on.

"General Acacius. Commander Darius. What is the meaning of this? Tell me what's happening here at once!”

You were as bewildered as Geta as you took in the scene before you on Palatine Hill. Nerissa, the slave girl you thought was dead, was alive—and she had a baby with her.

"Your cousin Elagabalus was holding this girl captive, Your Majesty," Darius explained. "My men found her and brought her here."

Geta's eyes widened in surprise. "Why would he do that?" he asked loudly.

You sat down next to Nerissa, who looked frightened. Embracing her, you felt her begin to cry. The baby was crying too; it seemed he had been born only a few weeks after your own. As a mother yourself, you could tell that the baby was hungry. “Why don’t you gentlemen talk outside?” 

All three of them looked at you and nodded, except Geta, who frowned instead of nodding.and then all left. The girl then explained to you everything that had happened to her while she was breastfeeding the baby. After Flavius and his men had attacked all the slaves and wounded her, the other guards, the ones under Macrinus captured her. And after Macrinus was executed, they cooperated with the men of Leptis Magna and handed her over to them. And she said that she was already close to labour when Elagabalus found her. Poor girl was so exhausted and weak that she thought she was going to lose the baby. Compared to your chubby Marcius, the baby looked thin, he was two weeks to pass his first month and you couldn't hide that you were a little worried about him. In fact, Nerissa was a noble Greek, not a slave, she had told you her story before. Maybe that's why she was kidnapped. If Macrinus cared about this girl there must be certain reason of her importance. Suddenly the baby started crying again, you checked her breast, she must be low on milk.

"Give him to me," you said, holding out your hands.

"But, my lady…”

"My breast milk is enough for both my Marcius and your baby," you said with a smile.

She returned your smile and placed her baby in your arms. Unlike your chubby Marcius, this baby had silky golden blonde hair on top of his head, just like his father. She thanked you and prayed for you as the baby suckled at your breast. Just as you were about to hand the baby back to her, Julia burst into the room.

“What do you think you're doing?”

You glared at her and handed the baby to her mother, who flinched in fright. You stood up and approached Julia, not liking the way she looked at the girl.

"You get the hell out of here right now and take the child with you!"

She sat up but you stopped her by raising your hand.

"Why would she? After all, she gave birth to a boy, it's Geta's."

"So? The child can't inherit the throne unless Geta weds her."

"I am aware. You must free the girl first, then wed them."

"She's a slave! How dare you think she's worthy of our emperor?"

'You know your son's interest in her. She's a concubina, not an ordinary slave."

"Yet she's not his wife! The Senate wouldn't accept the child as an heir since it wasn't born from legal marriage.”

“That is why I’m saying you must wed them. She’s a captive of war, forced into slavery. Her family is noble, isn't it, Nerissa?"

The girl nodded, looking at her hesitantly. "Yes, my Empress. If we were to send word to my family in Athens, I'm sure they would be able to send you an answer.”

Julia put her hands on her waist, thinking. "You dumb girl. Why didn't you tell me all this time?"

Her cheeks flushed and she bowed her head. "Because I loved Emperor Geta with all my heart. He didn't want me to tell anyone about it, not even his brother Emperor Caracalla."

"All those fights they had... It wasn't just to share your cunt huh?"

"Lady Domna!" You barked.

She approached her, ignoring your glare. "Even if I can convince the Senate, I can't convince Geta. He's really determined not to get married." She looked at you out of the corner of her eye.

"I'll talk to him." You said without looking at her. Then you turned and looked at Nerissa. "Don't concern yourself. No one can get you thrown out of this palace. I'll make sure your family is notified."

"I'll take care of that, you try to convince Geta if you can. But I wonder one thing Aurelia. What's in it for you? What's going on inside that beautiful head of yours I really wonder?’

"Don't confuse me with yourself, Lady Domna. Some favors are given without expecting anything in return.."

She laughed hysterically. "You may deceive others with your gentle and innocent face, but not me. Helping all those poor people and winning the love of the people with this way was a good move. I would never have thought of doing such a sneaky thing. Well done."

"You wouldn't understand even if I told you about it, so I won't tire myself out."

You turned your back on her, leaving the room.

As you left Geta's chambers and walked towards the great hall, you noticed Octavius and the other Praetorians standing outside. You could hear Geta's loud voice coming from inside, so you went to talk to Octavius before entering. "I spoke with Decima," you said.

He looked up at you, a bit surprised.

"I will make sure to mention it to the general, so you can feel assured."

"Thank you, my lady. I really appreciate it. But if it's all right with you, I would like to speak with him myself first."

"Of course, Octavius," you replied with a warm smile.

He walked you to the door and the guards opened it for you.

Marcus and Darius looked at you. Geta however, his back was turned, resting his hands on the table. He then turned his head when he heard your footsteps.

"Commander Darius," you said, looking at him. "Would you please give us some privacy?"

"Yes, my lady," he replied, motioning for the other guards to step outside.

Geta poured himself a glass of wine and settled into the lectus behind the long golden-colored curtain.

Marcus grabbed your arm, "Perhaps it’s best if we don’t get involved."

You reassured him by touching his hand. "I just need to speak with him."

He let out a sigh, "I’ll be right here."

You smiled at him, then turned around and walked towards Geta. As you pushed the curtain aside with your hand, you noticed that he had already finished his glass. He turned it upside down and shook it. Quickly, you picked up the decanter from the table and poured more wine into his glass.

“He looks just like you, you know,” you said.

“Oh please!”

“What's the matter with you? Aren't you happy to see her again?”

“I'll die of happiness!” he replied sarcastically. You sat next to him. “You must marry her so the child can be your legal heir.”

He looked at you sternly, a look you had never seen before. “That's not how it works in Rome!”

“I know the truth about her,” you insisted.

“You know nothing, Aurelia!” he barked, then stood up angrily.

Marcus watched the two of you from a distance, clearly feeling nervous, but he waited patiently.

"We need to let her family know about all this. If you wed her quickly-"

"She does not have a family." He interjected emphatically, taking a moment to inhale deeply. "Caracalla had all of them executed."

"What did you just say?" you wailed.

Marcus stepped towards you as soon as he heard your loud voice. Still unable to believe what you had just heard, you didn’t notice him until he touched your back.

“It was before the revolt in Egypt. Her family came to Rome; they wanted to take her because she was the sister of their princess. That was one of the reasons the Greeks supported the revolt, Acacius.”

You looked at Marcus. It might sound a bit strange, but that rebellion actually brought you to him in a really unique way. After a moment of silence, you feel more determined to convince him.

“She must have had family left behind. You need to inform them about the situation. If you marry, it could be possible to establish peace between them and Rome, right? Additionally, if you appoint your son as your legal heir, you will regain their trust and take a step towards improving relations too.”

He folded his arms, “Marrying a Greek? I don’t think the Senate would approve of that.”

‘"Well, you must convince them, right?"

“I shall undertake that responsibility!" Julia's voice echoed through the great hall, filled with joy. "You must wed her, my son."

Geta looked at both you and Julia. "You two agree on that, huh? I’ll be damned." He then turned to Marcus. “What is your perspective, Acacius?”

"I am not a politician, Emperor Geta. However, it is undeniably advantageous for us that the Greeks refrain from participating in any future rebellions against Rome. So I agree with my wife, Lady Aurelia.”

You respected him; despite his modest denial of being a politician, he displayed considerable wisdom.

"I think I owe her that much," Geta murmured.

"We must start preparing for the wedding right away," Julia said with a smile. "But first, I need to invite the wives of the senators and discuss everything with them. They might be upset with me about this." Suddenly, her expression changed as she looked at you. "Aurelia, perhaps they'll be more easily persuaded if you join me. They respect you."

"Being in the same room with those women again? Not for me, Lady Domna," you replied. Julia was about to protest, but Marcus's stern gaze seemed to silence her.

"Then we ask for your permission to take our leave," Marcus said.

Geta nodded. "You may leave."

Marcus extended his arm, and you accepted it as you both departed from the hall. As you made your way out of the courtyard toward his horse, Marcus leaned in, whispering; “Aurelia, what is your intention?”

You met his gaze and lightly touched his face. “I am seeking to protect our son.”

He looked confused as he tried to understand your meaning. You took his hand. “Let us return home to continue our discussion; I miss our son deeply.”

He responded with a smile, gently kissing your hand. “So do I.”

“What you mentioned earlier...” Marcus said as he poured wine into his goblet. “I am curious about what you meant by protecting our son.” Marcius, seemed full, releasing your breast. He made the most beautiful sounds that filled the room with warmth and then drifted off to sleep peacefully.

“I meant to prevent him from being seen as the heir to the throne.” You stood up and gently put Marcius on the small mattress next to your bed. He seemed to fall into a peaceful sleep; at least, you hoped so. Marcus handed you one of the glasses and then moved over to watch him sleep. You took a sip from the glass and began to remove the fancy hairpins from your hair.

"You're afraid he might become emperor..." he said, covering him with the small blanket. "More than anything," you replied as you placed the hairpins into the box. "The weight of such responsibility is immense, Marcus. There will always be those who seek the throne and those who would want to harm him and manipulate him. How can I live with this fear? How can we live?" When you turned your head to look at him, you found him gazing back at you. He stood up and stepped toward you.

"I will be so relieved if Geta gets married as soon as possible," you said, yawning involuntarily. It had been a long and tiring day, first because of Hanno and then Geta.

Marcus's big hand reached behind you, grabbing your hair and sweeping it over your shoulder, leaving your neck exposed. Your tiredness instantly faded, replaced by something else entirely.

"I can't disagree with that." You swallowed as his warm breath licked your neck. And you gasped as his lips found your jugular. You closed your eyes, surrendering yourself to the sanctity of his touch. He wrapped his arms around you, under your arms, and pressed himself against you. One hand slid down, under the fabric of your tunic, touching your folds. You moaned quietly as he stroked your clit with his thick fingers. "Are you ready to be mine, princess?" His tone was so seductive that you would be damned if you did refuse him.

"I am-mmph..."

Your delighted moan was muffled as he mashed his mouth against yours, aggressive and lustful. You shuddered and wrapped your arms around his neck without missing a beat, mewling submissively even as his hands left your clit and moved to your hips instead, grabbing them firmly and sending jolts of excitement up your stomach. He then lifted you up making you laugh unashamedly as his hands squeezing your butt-cheeks beneath fabric even as your lips stayed connected. His tongue prodded your lips and you parted them instantly, letting out a horny whine as it invaded your mouth and dominated yours with embarrassing ease. As if to comply with that he held your ass more firmly, that being the only warning you got before he roughly laid you down on the bed. The little one's cooing made you break the kiss. But when you looked at him he seemed happy in his sleep. You whispered to him as Marcus' impatient fingers quickly grasped the hem of your tunic. “I love this tunic of mine, so please be gentle.”

“With your tunic maybe, but not with you.” He said grinning, sending a shiver of pleasure down your spine. He leaned down, his lips grazed down your collarbone, breath hot against it, and a moan rolled off of your tongue as he kissed the top of your breast and then sucked upon it harshly. You found yourself afraid that might be hurt but it didn’t.

The thought was purged from your mind though as he swiftly snatching your other nipple up in his mouth. You gasped, your hand ending up in his curly hair and tugging it; utterly melting as you felt his tongue swirl around repeatedly before he gave it a wet-sounding suck, tugging it out until your nipple sprung from his lips and left your breast jiggling a little. His face placed between your breasts a mere second later, growling lustfully as he rubs them and tickled you with his hot breaths. He didn't stay there for long. Planting another few quick kisses upon your flesh then with a rush of eagerness, he undressed himself, his movements fast, impatient. Simply making you aroused more.

Just like he said before, he wasn't gentle when he grabbed you by the hips and pulled you towards him. He had just placed your legs over his shoulders when a soft cooing stopped him. You both looked at each other, remembering that there were three of you in the room now.

“How about we skip this part for now?”

Marcus smiled and kissed your knee. “I'll make it up to you, I promise.”

He leaned down and kissed you; it was passionate, tender, eager, and even a little rushed.

But then, however, there was his erection resting against your stomach, precum dripping onto your flesh. You ran one hand through the precum and along the length. He gasped at the touch, pulling away from the kiss. You met his eyes as you brought him to your entrance. He grinned, baring his teeth.

“Eager I see,” he said in a heated whisper.

With a playful grin, you pressed your finger to his lips and whispered, "Acta non verba, my love.”

Then, with a seductive lean back and spreading your legs, invited him in. He had his need pushed against your clit, along the sensitive skin, through your wetness. You cooed, writhing for him to feel inside you. He gave you one more kiss before shifting slightly to grab the backs of your knees and spread your legs wider than you had them. He pulled out a few inches and pushes back in, easing you into his thrusts before he starts picking up and every time he thrust into you, stretching you, made you crave more and more. Sweat dripping down your brow as he thrust deeper, lifting you by your knees and bending your legs towards your torso. In this position where you couldn’t move very much, he took control, finding sweetest spot with his aching need. You couldn’t stop moaning and mewling, crying out his name as he goes faster.

When your moans became louder, his big hand covered your mouth, silencing you. "Sssh, you'll wake him up, love," he whispered, finding your ear through your hair. "And I don't want our fun to end just yet." You nodded and continued to moan into his palm. He kept covering your mouth with his hand as he carried on thrusting, each one deeper than the last. He was sweating from his brow and the sweat was dripping onto your chest. He wiped the sweat with the back of his hand and pushed his hair back, but it was no avail; it swayed downwards as he leaned down to give you a messy kiss.Then you two drew back, inhaled a breath, and reconnected. Eventually he removed his hand from your mouth, he just wanted to bring you both to the climax, he didn't care about anything else at this point. Effortlessly, he threw your legs over his shoulders and leans forward, bracing his hands on either side of your shoulders and taking you just right. He then reached around to get his fingers on your clit, rubbing relentlessly.

“Marcus” you cried, “Marcus please—”

You can barely heard him over the wet-sound of slamming against your body. “That’s right, my love. Say my name. Come for me.”

All the stimulation gets to you and you obey. You gush on his length to the point where he has to pull out and watch as you make a complete mess of the bed. The rest of your body trembling, hips thrusting on their own, and fingers clawing at sheets. You scream at this point and he has to cover your mouth again, but this time not with his hand, but with his mouth. You moan and whimper into his mouth, hoping that you have not woken the little one up.

"Look at that," he groaned, rubbing your throbbing cunt and you clenched. "Well done, my princess. You’re a good girl.”

Desperate for his need and his orgasm, you pressed your heels against his back. "Inside. Inside me, Marcus, please."

Saying your name, he suddenly plunged back in. You responded with another scream, arching your back and taking every hard thrust. His breath faltered and his moans grew louder. And... You'd just had a second orgasm, but if he kept it up, you'd have a third.

“Wish me to fill this beautiful cunt of yours up…hmm?”

“Yes,” you said between his thrusts, “Yes, my love, fill me in, Gods!”

“I will gladly grant your wish…” He snarled.

Marcus' at his loudest when he came inside you, giving you everything you want and more. As he pushed himself into you, you come again. This time there is no concern or intention to be careful not to make a loud noise. You tightened around him with every thrust, moaning with him and accepting the messy kiss he giving you. It was hard to kiss back when your breath is stolen, when every emotion hits all your nerves and you can’t think straight. He didn’t move once he gives you his last drop. A moment passes where the two of you simply catch your breath. And eventually, as a result of all this noise, the final expected happened and little Marcius began to cry.

You both looked at him, panting, and then back at each other, grinning triumphantly and mischiveously. When you feel the soreness hit, you wiggled your legs and Marcus got the hint. He carefully placed your legs back on the bed. You whimpered as he pulled out, and you could feel the mix of fluid drip out of your cunt. When Marcius started crying louder, you tried to sat up, but your most sensitive parts were throbbing a bit and your legs felt numb.

“Marcus, will you give him to me? I can’t feel my legs.”

He kissed your cheek. “Forgive me. Couldn’t help myself.”

You smiled. “Couldn’t help myself, either.”

He gave you a kiss before getting out of bed and you leaned against the headboard while you watched him tenderly take Marcius in his arms and kiss his head, caressing his little nose with his own. It was something you never got tired of watching, it was so sacred, so beautiful. Before Marcus placed him in your arms, he put a pillow behind your back and kissed the top of your head as you smiled up at him. He was rough when he made love to you, but he always blew your mind with his incredible gentleness and tenderness afterwards.

After having breakfast together in the room, you and Marcus visited the stables. You had become quite skilled at grooming lately, and it was incredibly peaceful. However, there was another reason for your visit. While you were absent-mindedly combing Unio's mane, thinking about what Hanno had said. You were having second thoughts about going to the place he mentioned. Would he have to escape again to get there? How had he ended up in Rome? How did he become a gladiator? You were startled by Marcus' touch on your waist. Unio let out a neigh as you accidentally tugged on her mane. To soothe her, you gently touched her nose and gave her a kiss.

"I see you really enjoy that, my lady," Marcus said with a warm smile.

You returned his smile. "I do. It has such a calming effect." You tapped the brush to remove the hair from its bristles.

Marcus let out a light sigh. "Well, I must admit that what I'm about to ask you to do might not be as calming." You raised your eyebrows in curiosity and narrowed your eyes when you spotted the wooden sword in his hand. "But this... it's made of wood..."

"I wouldn't hand you a sharp sword for your first lesson," he said firmly.

You placed the brush in the basket and picked up the sword, clutched it with both hands, examining. It was heavier than it looked. "It feels a bit like a toy," you murmured.

He touched yours with his wooden sword. "Rule number one: Whatever weapon you wield, you must forge an unbreakable bond with it; treat it as part of your arm.”

Your caring husband, Marcus, had quickly transformed into your stern General, Acacius.

"Yes, General," you muttered.

He smirked. "If you master this, you can begin using a real steel sword.” he encouraged you. "Remember, finding balance is essential in your early lessons."

"Balance?"

He nodded. "It's like dancing—using the right steps. Come with me; I'll show you what I mean." He took your hand and led you out of the stables, where he had taught you how to use a knife.

"Aren't you supposed to be on duty today?" you asked.

"I am, but I have time before I take my leave. Come."

When you reached the wide open space, Marcus took the wooden sword from your hand and stood in front of you.

"First, you must improve your agility. Catch it, princess!"

He tossed one of the swords towards you, but you weren't able to catch it, so it fell to the ground. “Whoa!” You bent down to pick it up. “Why did you... "It's not as if I'm planning to attack my enemy by throwing it."

He narrowed his eyes. “I see you’re feeling confident. Alright, what are you going to do with it? How will you use it? Tell me.”

"I should just stick the pointy end into my enemy, right?"

He grinned smugly. “Do you really think it’s that simple, my lady?”

You shrugged. “It shouldn’t be too difficult.”

He opened his arms. “Very well then, strike me.”

With both hands, you gripped the sword tightly. Suddenly, you realized it wasn't as easy as you had thought, but you were determined not to embarrass yourself in front of him. Marcus struggled to hold back his laughter at the expression on your face. Ignoring him, you raised the sword and lunged toward him. As you initiated your attack, he effortlessly pushed your sword away with a flick of his hand, barely moving his arm. You staggered backward, nearly dropping the sword.

"It’s not as easy as it seems, is it? That’s why I’m telling you to focus on your balance first. In time, you’ll understand what I mean, and when I throw it to you, it will be much easier to catch. Now, think of it as a real sword and show me how you hold it. Try again." This seemed simple, but it quickly became clear from the look on his face that I was doing something wrong. “Now you are standing wrong. Turn your body side-face, yes.”

He came over and put one hand on your waist and the other under your chin. "Just, so, yes." Then he looked at your feet. "Spread your legs."

"I can do that," you said, grinning widely, thinking about things you did in your bedroom, like how he spreads your legs in there.

Be ready to be mine...

He kissed your cheeks, where they had blushed, and your naughty thoughts were replaced by a desire.

"Focus, princess."

"Apologies. I was thinking about something..." You batted your eyelashes.

He brought his face closer to yours. "Are you trying to get away from your training by seducing me, hm?"

"Maybe I am." You giggled.

"Well, you succeeded."

He leaned in and kissed you on the lips.You let go of the sword and put your arms around his neck, and the moment you touched his hair, the inevitable thing happened again – he lost it!  He wrapped his arms around your waist, deepening the kiss. You let his tongue enter your mouth, and everything else in the place and the reason you were there flew away, there was only him and your warm breath through your nostrils, caressing each other's cheeks. Your hearts were beating rapidly with excitement. When you heard footsteps approaching, your lips suddenly stopped moving, breaking the kiss. Pulling himself back with some difficulty, he smiled at you, licked his lips, then turned his head in that direction.But you didn't, instead, you ran your eyes over his side view, admiring his gorgeous face.

"General!"It was Cato's voice.You pulled your hands away, but Marcus' hands were still around your waist.

"Cato, is something wrong?”

"I've been informed the Council is meeting today, sir. And Emperor Geta said he'd like to see you there during the session." Then he looked at you. "You too, my lady."

You frowned.

"Thank you Cato, get the carriage ready then."

"There's no need," you said firmly. "I’d better not attend."

Marcus lifted his eyebrows. "Do you have other plans, my lady?"

You looked away. "It’s an official council meeting. I don’t think there’s any need to disturb the Senate members with the presence of a woman. Besides, I planned to visit my cousin Paulina today."

For some reason, your tone sounded so convincing that it even surprised you.

"Is that so? You didn't mention that," Marcus said.

"I was going to..." you lied, feeling a wave of self-hatred wash over you.

Marcus's eyes weren't skeptical as they roamed over your face. "Well, I think it's better that you're there than at the council."

"I agree. Come, let me help you dress appropriately," you replied, grabbing his arm. He smiled, allowing you to pull him inside.

After Marcus left the villa with Cato, you made your decision to meet Hanno. You nursed Marcius and handed him over to Norell, then went up to your chambers to get dressed. It was almost noon by this time. Everyone in the villa believed you were going to visit your cousin, including Decima, who accompanied you in the carriage. However, when the carriage was halfway to its destination, you ordered the driver to take you through the streets of Rome instead. You put on your cloak, ignoring Decima, who looked at you in astonishment.

“I thought we were going to your aunt Antonia’s house?” 

“No, we’re not.” 

She opened her eyes wide. “Are we going to stalk the general again?” 

You glared at her. “No, of course not.” 

“Then where are we going?” 

You tied the laces of your cloak and replied, “Decima, trust me and don’t ask questions. I promise I’ll tell you everything later. Stop the carriage!” 

The coachman obeyed your command and halted the carriage on the east side of the Colosseum. The gladiator school was on its left, and the popina was at the corner of the street. 

“There are no houses or shops here,” she muttered. 

“I know,” you said, pulling the hood over your face and stepping out of the carriage. Decima stood up as well, but you stopped her. 

“I’ll go alone.” 

“But Aurelia—” 

“Don’t worry, I’ll be safe. I won’t be long, and Decima, this is between us, alright?”

She nodded. “Fine, but please be careful.”

“I will be,” you replied with a smile and began walking into the crowd. You weren’t wearing much jewelry; the last thing you wanted was for someone to realize you were their princess.

The street was less crowded than you had expected. Many people were discussing today’s council meeting and moving at a brisk pace toward the Roman Forum. Perhaps most people had gathered there, which would work to your advantage. When a group of passersby glanced your way, you quickly turned your head.

“Did you hear that General Acacius is attending too?” one person said.

“Yes, I wonder if the princess will be there,” another replied.

“We’re going there to see her anyway,” one continued.

“I think she will definitely attend,” another added.

“I’ll finally get to see her up close,” someone else said.

You smiled to yourself. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled quietly.

After passing through a few more people, you looked around. You were now passing the gladiator school, and you shuddered as you remembered how you had last been imprisoned there. Then you thought of Hanno—how did he end up here? It was just one of a thousand questions you wanted to ask him. You quickened your pace, and when you saw the popina’s signboard, your heart began to race with anxiety.

The harmonious music, accompanied by the sounds of laughter and conversation from within, extended into the street, fostering an inviting atmosphere but not for everyone, apparently.

Please don't let anyone recognize me. Please don't let anyone recognize me.

You pushed open the double-leaf door. The people standing nearby turned their heads to see who was coming in, but they couldn't see your face and soon returned to their chat. One person glanced at you with curiosity but quickly looked away. Suddenly, the music stopped, and you froze, but it had nothing to do with your entrance—it was just a coincidence.

Soon, the music began again. You took a deep breath of relief and moved forward, scanning the tables one by one. You noticed a man in a black cloak sitting alone in the corner. You moved there and tilted your head to see his face, but first, you glanced around to ensure no one else was sitting alone. It must have been him. You leaned toward him and whispered, “Hanno?"

You were so startled when the man looked up at you that you jumped back. A bulky man with numerous scars on his face scrutinized you and then raised his eyebrows with a low curse. “Am I high already?” he asked himself.

“Oh, forgive me. I thought you were someone else,” you stammered.

He grinned widely, showing all his teeth. “I’ll be whoever you want me to be, beautiful.”

Just as you were about to turn away, his large hand grabbed your wrist. “Come on, sit down and have a drink with me—just one drink.” He pulled you toward the chair.

Was he drunk? At this time of day?

You struggled to free your arm, but you couldn’t even budge it. “Let go of my arm!”

“Come now, don’t be stubborn. A beauty like you doesn’t come along every day.”

“Look, I’m a married woman, and you wouldn’t even want to know who my husband is.”

He frowned.

“Let her go!”

You turned your head in the direction of the familiar voice. Hanno had pushed the man's arm away. “Damn it, Aldhard, didn’t I tell you not to drink after the opium?”

You crossed your arms. “So you two know each other?”

Hanno rolled his eyes. “Don’t ask.”

The man stood up and looked at both of you. “You little shit. You never told me you had such a beautiful friend. So that’s why you’re always running away, huh?”

“Go back and get some rest. You can’t go out in the arena tomorrow like this.”

The man huffed as he turned to walk away. “That’s why I’m drinking, you bastard.” He left, muttering curses in his native language that you had never heard before.

Hanno turned to you. “Forgive me for being late. But it’s hard to get out of there.”

You sat down in a chair and exhaled deeply. “Hanno, it’s strange to see you here after all this time. Especially as a gladiator.”

He settled into the chair where his friend had just been sitting. “It’s quite the story,” he said, raising his arm to catch the keeper’s attention. “I’m surprised you came, you know.”

“It wasn’t easy,” you replied.

“I guess you came secretly from your husband.” He smiled crookedly.

“I came secretly from everyone. You know why.”

"Yes, I was quite surprised to hear that. I can't believe you're a princess. I always knew you were special, but..."

A little later, a young man brought you a jug of wine and two glasses, along with a platter of chicken for two.

"The chicken here is really good. Come on, eat,” he said, spooning some onto his plate, opening his mouth wide, and starting to eat with appetite.

You reminisced about the meals you had shared together in the tavern back in Egypt.

“Forget about me and tell me about yourself,” you said as you dipped your spoon into the food. “How did you get to Rome? How did you become a gladiator, and where have you been all this time?” You brought the spoon to your mouth, not because you were hungry, but because the smell was enticing, and you wanted to taste it.

He didn’t look at you and continued to eat. “I was brought here by your husband.”

You nearly choked on your morsel, coughed, and sipped your wine. “What did you say?”

“As a prisoner of war.”

“Or did you fight alongside the Persian army against Rome?” Your voice was louder than you intended, causing nearby people to turn their heads. Hanno glared at them, and they quickly looked away.

“Hanno, what happened? Tell me everything.”

His blue eyes clouded, and his expression hardened. “Alright. That night…” He took a deep breath. “I mean, the night the rebels raided the Roman military camp. By the time I got there, they had taken all the Medici from the Valetudinarium.”

“Oh, right. Where were you that night?”

“I heard one of my friends was injured during the revolt, so I decided to go help him. When I entered the room to tell him I was leaving, Vicius mentioned that you were asleep. That turned out to be the last time I saw both you and him." He took a sip of his drink, looking gloomy. "The next day, Vicius' body was brought to the Valetudinarium along with the other Medicii. I personally took care of his funeral, all of his friends were deeply saddened. However, what was even more haunting was what they said. They claimed they saw you among the prisoners. They had killed him, and not only that, but they had also taken you as a prisoner. I was so angry that I ran to the harbor, but I couldn't catch up. The Roman ships had already sailed out to sea, just about to disappear over the horizon."

Your eyes filled with tears as you recalled that night.

"I apologize for not coming here sooner. My mother was sick, and I was occupied with her treatment, but I couldn’t save her. There were also many other patients to care for. Vicious was a skilled medicus; he was irreplaceable."

“Hanno, I'm sorry.”

“Aya, or Aurelia,” he said with a sad grin. “Why did you marry him? How did it happen?”

“Hanno, look…”

He interrupted, “After what happened to Vicius, all I could think about was coming here, finding you, and running away with you. I was certain you would be sold into slavery, and I couldn't sleep at night knowing you might be living a terrible life.”

“I wasn’t, actually. I love him, Hanno. He’s my life now. "We were planning to come here with Vicius, and now you know the specific reason why.”

“So, it turns out you and Vicius had a secret, huh?” He laughed. “All that time you were hiding in the Valetudinarium, trying hard to pass as a man, never going out in public, and his overprotectiveness toward you… I mean, it was obvious there was a reason, but I never expected you to be a Roman princess. I don't know what to say.”

“I found out when I came here, but how did you know I was married to the general?”

“Last week, I saw the two of you at the temple. People are always talking about you two. That day, they made us put on a little fighting demonstration at the Roman Forum. Honestly, I had a hard time recognizing you at first; you looked quite different from before.”

“I’m still the same person.”

“I doubt that.”

“What do you mean?”

“You're different; you've changed. Maybe your experiences have altered you, just like they have for me.”

“Why did you fight with the Roman army? You're not a soldier.”

“They needed a medicus and promised high payment. And you think I can't fight or something? Have you forgotten how many times I saved you from those filthy rats? They kept saying you were a scrawny young man and forced you to fight with them. Don’t you remember how I beat them up, girl?”

You laughed. “Yes, I remember.”

“Fighting against Roman soldiers seemed tempting to me. They said the rebels had joined forces with a small army in Syria organized by a Roman consul.”

“Macrinus?”

“No idea. I've never met him.”

“You can't. He's dead.”

“I bet your husband killed him, great Roman general.” He said mockingly.

You frowned and said, “Please don't talk about him like that. He's the bravest, most honorable man I know, and he's not as bad as you think. He’s also kind and understanding.”

“How touching. He wasn’t so innocent when he slaughtered hundreds on the battlefield, you know. He was like a beast.”

“It’s called war. What did you expect him to do? That’s what you did too—you fought and killed people, didn’t you? Besides, Vicius was killed by one of his soldiers, and he avenged him by killing that soldier in return.”

“But he took you prisoner—made you a slave.”

“He didn’t know who I was.”

Suddenly, he was distracted by the loud laughter of the women at the next table. You both turned your heads to look in that direction. Hanno reached towards you and pulled your hood more in front of your face.

“Don’t stare at them; we’ll get in trouble if they recognize you. And the ones sitting right behind us? They’re Spaniards. Believe me, they hate the Romans as much as I do. So whatever you do, don’t attract their attention.”

You didn't even want to ask why, but it was clear that the men and women were romantically involved, and the Spaniards seemed to be quite fierce characters. Suddenly, you realized that coming here might not have been such a good idea.

“Hanno, who bought you? If I talk to your master, maybe I can persuade him to set you free.”

He laughed. “I’m not a Roman, but I know that’s not how it works here. Tomorrow, I must fight in the Colosseum and win. That will bring me one step closer to my freedom.”

Your chest suddenly tightened. “But the Colosseum is too dangerous.”

“Are you worried about me?” he grinned. “Don’t be. I can take care of myself.”

“I’ll talk to my brother. I don’t know; there must be a way.”

He laughed hysterically. “Your brother? You mean the emperor? It’s not like he’s going to care about me. I don’t suppose you’ve heard the rumors about him.”

“He’s changed. He’s an emperor who cares about his people now.”

“Is he now?”

“Tell me his name. Who bought you?”

“Aya,” he growled.

“Tell me.”

“What will your husband say if you buy me?”

That was the real question. You sighed nervously.

“That’s what I thought.”

He raised his glass to his lips and drank it all.

Then he looked back over your shoulder. “Shit.”

“What the—”

“When I say so, we’ll run outside together, alright?”

“What? Why?”

“They realized I escaped. Again.”

"But why am I running? You're the one they're looking for." 

"It's him! Stop right there!" 

You stood up and looked over. It was the same guys from last time; they knew who you were. You tensed and took a step back, but suddenly you realized someone was touching you on your hips. In a fit of rage, you turned around and hurled his drink in his face.

"Do you think I'm a whore, you filthy bastard?" 

As the man angrily wiped the wine from his face, you immediately regretted what you had done. When he stood up, the others did too. “Jódete, maldita perra (Fuck you, stupid whore)!”

“Watch your mouth, cabrón!” Hano yelled.

Your eyes and mouth widened when the men drew their swords, and you instinctively hid behind Hanno.

"I suppose you have a reason to run now," Hanno whispered to you.

One of the men who had come to take Hanno held up a hand to stop them.

"Return to your table now," he ordered.

“Do not tell me what to do, maricón!”

“What did you say?” He drew his sword.

“He said arsehole to you,” Hanno translated with a grin.

“Damn Spinards, I shall cut your tongue!”

Hanno seized the opportunity amidst the chaos and pushed him onto the other man, causing both of them to collapse to the floor. The impact knocked over a table, spilling drinks and food everywhere and creating quite a mess. Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted dramatically, and everyone began to fight with one another. Hanno grabbed your arm and shouted, “Time to run!" He pulled you along as you both fled the scene.

When you got out into the street, you kept running faster, because the other men kept running after you.

“So you can speak spanish!” you shouted as you ran alongside him, your eyes scanning for the carriage.

“Only swear words!” he replied.

“Ugh! I hate you!”

“I’m not the one who spilled his drink all over his face!”

“You're the one swearing at them!”

The guys chasing after you were shouting something in spanish, and it was not hard to guess what they were saying.

“Aren’t you a gladiator? Can’t you fight them off?”

He laughed nervously. “I don’t think you realize how many there are.”

You looked back, and your eyes widened when you saw at least ten people.

“Where the hell did they come from?”

“I warned you about Spaniards! They are overprotective!”

“The carriage is just over there!” You said, pointing east of the Colosseum. “If we can get there-“

“No, not the carriage! They'll catch us before we get on!”

“What are we going to do?”

“I know a safe place; if I hide you there, I can escape them myself.”

When you looked back, they were still running insistently. Desperately, you searched for the carriage, realizing you had no choice but to follow Hanno. Fortunately, you soon reached the place he had mentioned. It was the barn of a house.

“The owner is old and deaf; he doesn’t come to the barn much,” Hanno said as he removed hay bales one by one to create a hiding spot for you. “Come, you’ll be safe here.”

“But for how long? What will you do?”

“I'm going to make them follow me down the road and I'm going to grab a sword from one of them and fight them. After I get them away from here, you run to your carriage, alright?”

You nodded. “Be careful.”

He smiled and looked back as the voices drew closer. "Hide well," he said before leaving the barn. You could hear his footsteps followed by those of his pursuers. You waited patiently until all the sounds faded away. Soon, the only noise was the gentle bleating of the lambs.

Standing up, you began to push the hay bales aside one by one. The smell was almost unbearable; if you were pregnant like before, you would have been violently sick. You brushed the straw out of your hair with your hands. Your legs ached from running, but you knew you had to reach the carriage no matter what.

You slowly stepped into the courtyard of the house, observing your surroundings. Fortunately, no one was in sight, except for the chickens, which, frightened by your presence, scattered away. The street was quiet, with just a few people who looked at you with curiosity, but you were too exhausted to care. After walking a bit further, you realized that you were very close to the street where the carriage was located, so you picked up your pace and walked there with relief.

Decima asked you questions along the way that you struggled to answer, and you responded as simply as possible. However, your real fear was what you would face when you got home—your clothes and everything else were a complete mess. You needed to get home before Marcus arrived. You couldn't help but worry about Hanno. Would he be able to fight those guys off? Would he be able to save himself? You had known him well since childhood, and you shared many memories together that were impossible to forget. No one could have predicted that things would turn out this way; it felt like a cruel twist of fate.

When you arrived at the villa, it was already evening. You and Decima got out of the carriage and walked into the courtyard. As soon as you stepped inside, you froze. Marcus was standing in the center, still wearing his formal white toga. He struggled to drape the shawl over his shoulder, as he didn't often wear this type of toga. However, the stern and confused expression on his face wasn't due to this difficulty; it was because he saw you with your clothes in disarray.

"Leave us alone," he said sharply, his gaze fixed on you. There was no one else around; he had directed that command at Decima. You bit your lip as she left the courtyard, leaving the two of you alone. He stepped towards you, inspecting you from head to toe so quietly that you wondered if he was trying to suppress his anger. Finally, he exhaled a deep, ragged breath, his dark brown eyes boring into yours.

"Where have you been?" he asked in a deep, almost growling voice. "I need an explanation right now."

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[kiryoutann]

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

If you enjoy this, you can buy me a Ko-fi :) Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

The decision to start your busy day with a 20-ounce coffee from the local coffee shop instead of your usual brew bites you in the ass as you hunch over in one of the bathroom stalls ten minutes before rehearsal begins. It exacerbates the already twisting sensation of your period cramps, sending a cold sweat down your temples. But it’s not like you have a choice—it’s only a week until the big performance, and you really need that extra boost to get through the day.

Knowing hands reach into the duffel bag at your feet, searching for the familiar edges of your phone. Pulling it out, the screen comes to life, unimportant notifications displayed. The clock revealed you only had five minutes left before you needed to leave.

You open the text app, not expecting anything really—you always know if he’s texted or not. The last few messages between you had all been initiated by you – a thank you, a hopeful “Hope you’re doing okay.” But his replies remained void, the "delivered" text staring back at you, mocking your attempts to reach out.

Switching to the “Find My” app, you searched for your other device. The last known location, before the device probably ran out of battery, was somewhere outside of London—a different city. A simple Google search reveals it to be a street lined with pubs and apartments, and his consistent coordinates say that’s where he lived.

This means you’ll have to wait a little longer for him.

Without further thought, you put your phone away, shouldering your duffel bag then. The reflection in the mirror greets you as you exit the stall, following your movements as you neatly arrange the loose strands of hair that had escaped your bun.

Just as you are about to turn away, the sound of a stall door clicking open catches your attention. Through the mirror, you meet Claudine's gaze, her lips automatically pulling into a smirk.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the ‘Miss Robot Queen’ herself,” she drawled as she sidled up next to you to wash her hands. You watched her, biting the inside of your cheek like you always do when you’re holding back words stuck in your throat. “How’s practice going, hm? The show’s in a week, you know.”

Shame crept up on you, threatening to consume you before suddenly giving way to something new—something that shifted inside you. The sensation was foreign—a burn that seemed to emanate from the center of your chest, radiating outwards. Your knuckles paled as you clenched your fists. The words turned sour, irritating your tonsils and—

You felt the urge to spit them out. At Claudine.

The woman carelessly tossed her paper towel into the bin. Looking in the mirror again, looking at you. “Break a leg, prima ballerina.” She blew you a mocking kiss, then walked towards the door to leave the bathroom.

“If it’s true what you said,”

Your voice echoed through the four walls, stopping Claudine in her tracks. Turning to face her, she did the same but looking quite shocked, for reasons unknown.

“If it’s true what you said, that I’m just a ‘robot ballerina’… then what does that make you?”

How uncharacteristic of those words to come out of your mouth. Claudine could hardly believe it—she continued to furrow her brows in disbelief as she tried to make sense of it all. A flicker of uncertainty crossing her features as she processed your bold sentence. Were you expecting silence instead, Claudine? Like before?

And then, there it is—hurt laid bare beneath just one thin layer of her skin, her insecurities swimming to the surface. For someone who constantly underestimated you, she was a fragile one. If the roles were reversed, she wouldn't have survived for nearly as long as you had.

Claudine tried to gather her composure, playing the tough girl, but her efforts were derailed as her breath began to stutter. “D-Do you think you’re all that now? Just because you got the role, you think you can talk to me like that?” Listen to that; even your voice is shaking.

“Do you always think you’re all that? Is that why you act the way you do?”

There was a crack in Claudine’s scoff. She pulled her lips into what she attempted to be a mocking smile, but the single tear that fell acted as a contrast. Hastily, she wiped it away, taking a heaving breath.

"Don't you know?" she started. “They made me your alternate. So if something happens to you, I'll be the one dancing as the Swan Queen.”

Everything went abruptly silent.

Alternate? What did she mean by ‘alternate’? You knew what an alternate was—you knew there was always an alternate. But why Claudine? Why did it have to be Claudine? It felt like a betrayal, but you also knew it was part of the norm. But they could have chosen someone else—Mary, Sophia, or anyone else who wasn’t Claudine. All this time, she had been waiting, hoping for you to falter, to fail—just so she could swoop in and claim the role that you had worked so hard for.

If anything happens to you, she’ll be the Swan Queen.

If anything happens to you.

“There won’t be anything happening,” you say, voice full of conviction as if the future is already guaranteed. “I can make sure of that.”

Without waiting for a reply, you snatched up your things and walked past her. The door slams behind you, drawing the curious gazes of other dancers who lined the walls. You lengthened your strides to reach the rehearsal room.

You push open the door, greeted by the familiar sound of the piano and the director’s voice guiding the corps de ballet. Henri notices the new arrival, turning his gaze to you.

“Ah, here’s our Swan Queen!” He exclaims, clapping his hands to gain everyone’s attention. “Let’s take our places!”

Swallowing hard, you try to calm your pounding heart. The other dancers start running to take their places, tutus swaying like water lilies. The pianist turns the sheet music to the front page. You take a deep breath before approaching.

Yes, you thought to yourself.

I am the Swan Queen.

The dark, dramatic notes of Black Swan Coda fill the air as you launch into the 32 fouettés. You continue to stretch your extension, fixing your eyes on one spot to anchor your spinning. The burn in your calf muscles intensifies, but you must keep going.

As the music comes to a close, you end the sequence with a finishing pose. The rehearsal crew erupts into thunderous applause, but you barely register any of that as you collapse to the floor, body succumbing to the cramps. You let out a hiss of pain, your fingers digging into the taut muscle.

“Are you alright?” Henri’s French-accented voice rings out as he approaches you.

You nod, brushing him off with a wave of your hand. “Just cramps.”

Henri regarded you for a moment, a faint frown on his forehead, before nodding slightly. “Okay, you take a break then. The rest of you, let’s take 10 and we’ll continue!”

The rest of the crew dispersed to their respective breaks, leaving the once bustling rehearsal room in a comfortable silence. You gently massaged your calves, trying to loosen the tense muscles underneath. Turning to the empty seats, you thought of the plush velvet version of it—the one in the grand hall where you would perform. In your mind, you had imagined those seats occupied by an eager audience, the balconies filled with those who had been fans of this kind of spectacle since their youth.

In the audience, there will be the dancers’ families and lovers—which means yours too. You’re sure your mother won’t be there, but Simon will be, just as he promised.

Making your way to where your duffel bag is, you sit down right next to the mirror. You reach for your water bottle, gulping it, closing your eyes as the cool liquid washes down your parched throat.

Untying the ribbons of your pointe shoes, you couldn’t help but hiss as the satin brushed against your skin. The relentless hours of practice, classes, and rehearsals revealed results you thought you’d grown accustomed to over the years—peeling skin, friction blisters on your pinky toes, the once-fresh Band-Aid now worn.

Rummaging through your duffel bag, you retrieve the burn pads, carefully peeling off the adhesive backing and applying them around the worst one. The cool, soothing sensation against your skin was a welcome relief; the throbbing ache numbed. You grab the duct tape, wrapping it around to secure everything in place while also effectively substituting for toe pads. Satisfied, you slipped back into your pointe.

Rehearsal resumed in ten, just as Henri promised.

And you’re home by eight.

The door closed with a heavy thud behind you, the familiar sound of mud crunching under your shoes as you stepped out onto the wet streets. But your attention was focused solely on the lifeless notification of your cellphone; your fingers scrolled through your unanswered messages.

Still nothing from Simon.

You type another text: “Simon, it's been weeks. I'm starting to get worried. Are you okay?” and hit send. Both frustration and worry start to color your brain. Is he busy? Didn't he read your messages? Or is he ignoring you on purpose? But everything is fine even after he drops you off—no arguments, nothing. Did he lose his phone, then? Is he in trouble, trapped, or being held hostage—

Stop. You've watched too many movies.

But now that you think about it—about the possibilities of why he hasn’t responded to any of your messages or even given any sign that he’s alive—your chest tightens.

Where are you, Simon?

The sound of raucous laughter from a group of men nearby causes you to shove your phone back into your coat pocket. Quickening your pace, you make your way down the familiar route to the subway. You went down the stairs with the sound of your boots stomping. The rumble of the approaching train echoed through the station, and you stepped onto the car, sinking into an empty seat.

Leaning your head back against the cool window, you feel the weight of exhaustion settle over you. Your calves ache, and your shoulders pop as you roll them. You know better than to close your eyes from fear of missing your stop, but everything feels heavy.

Where are you, Simon?

Lately, the days have been a blur, like a hazy dream you're not really a part of. When tomorrow turns into today, you go on with your routine based only on muscle memory that's been forged over the years.

Learning from your mistakes, you go back to your usual brew – two teaspoons of instant coffee. Sitting at the dining table, you gather your wits, letting your body adjust to the morning chill. Once you’ve reached the bottom of your cup, you stand up, make a beeline to the bathroom, and turn on the shower. Stepping out, you slip into your tights before sitting on your yoga mat and starting to stretch.

You bent forward, fingertips brushing the floor as you stretched your hamstrings. Holding the pose, you focus on your breathing rhythm, feeling the expansion of your lungs and the gentle pull in your spine before releasing and transitioning into the next movement.

Taking a deep breath, you raise your arms high, feeling the tension in your waist and—ding!

You quickly snatch your phone, hoping, praying, that it was finally Simon. But as you stared at the screen, your hopes were dashed; it was from a fast food restaurant promoting their latest deal. Not a message from Simon. Your chat room is still the same as you left it yesterday, the day before that, and the weeks that preceded it. No message from Simon, again. The same absence greeted you. Again.

The big performance is just a matter of days away. On that day, all the hard work, the fruits of your practices, all the blood, sweat, and tears that dripped will be unveiled on the prestigious opera stage that you've always dreamed of dancing on as a prima ballerina. You have grown out of the corps—in this Swan Lake, you will be Odette. You will be Odile. Her 32 fouettés will be yours. But—

But, why?

Simon didn’t reply to your text. Is he not coming? Does that promise mean nothing to him? Was it just one he knew he would break, but he gave it to you anyway because it was the least he could do to a woman he just had sex with?

No, why would you think of him that way? You berate the voice in your head. He always comes back in the end, so stop saying that about him.

The need to satisfy the nagging uncertainty inside you was overwhelming, and before you could talk yourself out of it, you typed out a new message. It didn't matter if it ended up sitting unread among the pile of unseen messages. The important thing was it was out there, that you had sent it. He would read it once he was done with whatever occupied his time.

As you hit send, the whoosh! sound of the message being sent is heard. Just as you’re about to put your phone back down and continue stretching, a small icon pops up next to the green chat bubble. A red exclamation mark in a circle.

“Not Delivered” is displayed underneath.

Your eyes darted frantically to the top of the screen, taking in the full signal bars and the indication that your service was working properly. So what happened? Why isn't it delivered? The questions swim around like restless organisms at the forefront of your mind. Gluing your eyes to the screen until it hurts, you keep waiting, hoping, praying that the status would change. But that dreaded exclamation mark remains, mocking you, taunting you with its presence.

Why? Why wasn’t it going through? Had something happened to Simon? Was he okay?

You tried to rationalize it. If it's not from you, it's definitely from his side then. Maybe he had wandered into an area with poor reception, or he had traveled somewhere with spotty service. Yes, that had to be it. Isn't that what military wives are always complaining about?

Despite knowing that wasn’t how it worked, you persisted. It was always easy to turn away from reality. Not the first time you’d settled for the comfort of a ruse.

Putting your phone aside, you demanded your focus return to your stretching routine. You tried to push the "Not Delivered" notification to the back of your mind where you could avoid facing it. But a girl in love could only do so much—to pretend it wasn’t forming a hole in your skull, questions forcing their way in despite the lack of answers.

Hours later, you find yourself back in the same rehearsal room, with the same Black Swan coda playing in the background. Your muscles burned with the strain of the same 32 fouettés, but you kept going, kept pushing yourself because that’s all you knew.

Because you are the Swan Queen.

You are the Swan Queen, and yet you’re slipping away. Your body moved through the steps, but your mind was a million miles away. In the background, Henri’s voice is almost drowned out by the orchestra—but the second time, he screams louder. Both fall on deaf ears. He screams about how you’ve fallen into the same old hole—

But you're not sure which one he means: your soulless dancing—the robot ballerina making her comeback once again—or your bad habit of tightening your grip on something you can’t keep?

Each spin, each leap, each extension of your limbs should be proof of how far you’ve come. But this? This looks like a restart—Henri lets out a ragged breath.

The piano stops playing. The whole room is silent.

You know you should be worried—your heart should be pounding in dread of what he has in store. Henry is going to orchestrate public humiliation against you in front of your fellow dancers and crew members, but then again, you can’t find it in yourself to blame him. In fact, he has every right to be. He has risked so much for this play, only to have the prima ballerina he personally chose to dethrone him into the abyss.

Without a word, Henri waved his hand, and the crew knew to immediately clear the room. They shuffled out, some in relief for the sudden short break, some casting curious glances over their shoulders, probably eager to witness your downfall.

But you felt nothing. Just this dull, numb sensation that almost made you unable to feel your own heartbeat. Even when you knew you should be scared of Henri’s berating or even the threat that he would replace you with someone else, you felt nothing.

Henri stepped closer, his brows furrowed in anger. “Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas? C'était quoi ce bordel?!” What’s wrong? What the fuck was that?! he demanded, the French coming out thick and heavy. “You were doing so well! The play is tomorrow and you’re falling apart!” He threw his hands up in exasperation, fingers tangling through his salt-and-pepper hair.

“GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER!! We can’t afford to lose, not now! Not when we’re so close!”

Something inside you suddenly snapped into focus. Your eyes widened as a realization fell.

So close. After all this time—all that you two went through—you couldn't afford to lose him now. Not when you two are so close to being together, to finally have a chance. You couldn't afford to lose him now.

After the disastrous rehearsal, you waste no time. You are already on your phone, searching for Simon's name before pressing the call button. With heart pounding in anticipation, you waited, but it wasn't a long wait until a voice answered.

A voice that wasn't Simon's.

“We’re sorry; the number you are trying to reach is no longer in service.”

Instantly, the numbness lifted before it all crashed. Your heart plummeted to the pit of your stomach, and you felt something acidic creeping up your throat, threatening to choke you. Hands trembling, you lowered the phone, staring at the screen in disbelief. This couldn’t be happening. There had to be some mistake.

You quickly dialed the number again, praying it was just an error—a temporary disconnection that you’ve been having problems with since this morning.

“We’re sorry; the number you are trying to reach is no longer in service.”

The world around you seemed to tilt and sway. Pain coursed through the back of your neck, making its home in the nape of your neck. Taking ragged breaths, your mind raced as you tried to make sense of it all.

What happened?

The ache reaches the back of your head, and you reach up to grasp the tight bun that contained your hair. Your rough grip undoing the pins in one pull. You grab a fistful of your strands and yank, hoping to relieve the tension.

What happened? You keep asking yourself. The unanswered message, the failed one.. And now, the number was out of service? Your heart pounded in fear, a thousand scenarios playing through your mind. What happened?

Did something happen to him?

Was he on deployment, and the worst had happened?

Had he been hurt, or worse?

Simon has been an enigma since the moment you met. But not this, don’t let this be. Please, I need you to be okay. I can’t lose you, not now, please.

Crouching on the side of a London street, you don’t even notice the headlights of the cars that blind you. To the casual observer, it would look like you had become enamored with the stone pavement beneath your feet. But in reality, you’re just trying to slow down time, to find your footing once again, to stop the torrent of thoughts racing through your head.

But time waits for no one, as they say. And before you knew it, tomorrow turned into today, just as it had before. Now, on the big day, standing on the stage, you stare at that lonely, empty chair that had been reserved for your special audience.

Simon Riley.

The Swan Queen dances, but looks more like a ghost trapped in a body operating solely on muscle memory. The leaps, the extensions, even the infamous Black Swan 32 fouettes—they all feel mechanical. As if danced by…

A soulless ballerina.

But it doesn’t matter, right? Not when someone has made a promise to see you perform, only for them to not show up. Even when the show is over (and you survived Henri’s berating, saying that it can’t go on like this—“we’re replacing you.”), all you find is your failure.

Your failure in finding him.

Your failure in—

(Why did you let that man walk away?)

No, you insisted, he didn't walk away. Something must've happened to him—something that was keeping him away from me. He wouldn't... he wouldn't have just disappeared, not when he knew how much I needed him, not when we're so perfect for each other.

Not when he promised you.

But you also know that promises are the easiest to break. Besides, this wasn't the first time, was it? Something similar happened a long time ago.

Where are you, Simon?

Where. Are. You?

Here you are.

Surrounded by unfamiliar buildings in an even more unfamiliar city. A city outside of London. The location coordinates were given by your other phone before the battery died.

A city where Simon is likely to be.

Realistically speaking, this is a shot in the dark. A wild guess you've made based on the screenshot of the "Find Me" app and the address you googled. There’s no guarantee that he lives in one of those buildings like you assumed—there’s no guarantee that by setting foot here, you’ll meet him.

However, a girl in love is nothing but hopeful. Too hopeful, sometimes. And you cling to that like a lifeline—praying there will be a clue leading you to him.

As you emerge from the train station, the fresh air greets your face, a welcome change from the stuffy confines of the underground. Glancing down at your phone, you re-read the address, eyes following the arrow on the map that gauges the distance between your current position and your destination. You start walking, navigating the unfamiliar sidewalks.

You sweep your gaze across the faces of the passerby, heart beating in hope—in desperation to find a familiar face, to catch a glimpse of Simon among the sea of strangers.

The outcome proved to be consistent with the weeks that preceded it—nothing. Doubts begin to take root, seeking an abode within you to poison your thoughts. Maybe this is all just a stupid chase—one that won't yield anything no matter how deep you dig.

Then, your eyes land on the quaint little café—the very same one you had seen on Google. It’s striking enough, perfect for a guidepost that could lead you to the address you’ve been searching for. With renewed determination, you know you must keep going.

You pushed through the café’s door, deciding to get your caffeine fix before continuing your mission. The aroma of freshly brewed java enveloped you, accompanied by the busy voice of the barista behind the counter. You entered the queue, sweeping your eyes over the menu board despite knowing you were only loyal to one type of drink.

“What can I get for you today?” the barista asked as soon as it was your turn.

“A large caramel macchiato, with an extra shot of espresso, please.”

The barista nodded, tapping away at the cash register. He stated your total, and you quickly fished out a few bills from your wallet and placed them on the counter. After mumbling a thank you, you stepped aside to let the next customer order.

You sat at an empty table, drumming your foot anxiously and biting your lips as you waited for your order. The jittery feeling in your stomach grew more intense with each passing second. You continued glancing down at your phone, at this point expecting nothing, but doing it for the sake of acting busy.

Taking a deep breath, you try to still the trembling in your hands. You turned your gaze to the window—

And your heart nearly stopped.

There, parked on the street, was the very car you’d been in multiple times. It was the car Simon drove to the countryside when you went to Sabrina’s wedding. The same car that drove you home before he disappeared into thin air.

You pause for a moment but don’t take your eyes off it—a lurking fear that if you do, it will evaporate like a daydream. But the car is still there. Real. You feel your palms begin to sweat.

What started as a wild guess—a wild, aimless chase—now seemed to be bearing fruit. Simon’s car was parked right there, which means there’s a good chance he’s somewhere around here. Even if he isn’t, then at the very least, this is a neighborhood he frequents—a high-probability location to find him.

You can almost see him now. The black woven polypropylene mask he often wears, beneath it a smile he tries to hide but the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes always give it away. Maybe he's clad in the leather jacket he usually wears. Is he upstairs in one of the apartments, just out of sight? Does he really live around here?

If you do bump into him, will he suspect you—see through your lies? Or will he think it’s a coincidence—a meeting planned by the universe? Signs that you were truly meant for him.

Signs that you’re perfect for each other. Soulmates.

A voice called your name, snapping you back to reality. You realized it was the barista; you quickly got up and collected your drink with a grateful nod. Looking back out the window, the car was still there. Waiting for you.

What had started as a simple to-go order quickly transformed into a leisurely sip as you found yourself sitting at a table outside. You settled in, trying to blend in without seeming suspicious with the other patrons—some reading, others tapping away on their laptops, and a few chatting with their friends over their coffee and baked goods.

Time and again, your gaze drifts back to the car. You study it intently, as if looking for a difference—for it to reveal secrets to you. Perhaps Simon would emerge from one of the buildings, or he might even stroll to this café. Is he a regular here too?

The temptation to survey the area grows stronger with each passing second. But you resist the urge, knowing full well that such a bold move could backfire. What would you say if you ran into Simon? Coincidence is one thing, but running into him in his own apartment?

Hours ticked by. The patrons around you came and went; you stayed, your body still angled at that car. You finished your coffee but refused to give up your post. Despite your waiting, there was still no sign of Simon.

The sky was getting darker, probably close to dinner time—you confirmed this after checking the time on your phone. A rational part of you knew that you should leave, at least to get something to eat instead of subsisting solely on caffeine. But you denied yourself. What if he shows up when I leave?

If you leave now, you might lose your chance—the scattered clues and breadcrumbs you’ve been trying to scavenge for the past few weeks. All of this would be nothing again, and what are you supposed to do if that were the case?

The barista pushes open the door of the cafe, collecting the empty cups from the table across from you. He turns, then pauses. Something about you brings pity into his expression, and he offers if you’d like him to bring you something to eat. You accept the offer, order a plate of Danish pastry, and pay and tip.

Another two hours of waiting, and the hope in you begins to fade. You sank deeper into your chair, staring at the empty cup of your second coffee that had gone cold. Maybe you should just call it a night. There's a hotel just a few blocks away—you can settle in there, get some rest, and pray the phantom himself will make his long-awaited appearance the next day.

You begin to gather your things, making sure everything is in your bag. Standing up, you tighten your coat, preparing to leave.

A movement caught your eye.

Across the street—right in front of the building where the car was parked, a movement made you stop in your tracks. You waited for confirmation.

A tall, familiar shadow emerged, and your breath caught. The car lights flickered—the figure is unlocking it and preparing to get in. Your heart throbs both in excitement and trepidation. And then, just as another car passed by, its headlights illuminated the man’s face.

Simon looks exactly the same as he had the last time you saw him.

As if he had never been away, never disappeared. As if he had gotten up in the morning, gone about his day, and fallen asleep peacefully at night, and all of this anguish and turmoil was one-sided-

Simon’s car engine roared to life. Before you could process it, it started to drive away. You quickly hailed the nearest taxi, hastily climbing inside. The driver was about to open his mouth, but you beat him to it by pointing at the car in front and commanding, "Follow that car!" He didn’t ask any questions. The cab pulled out onto the street, just two cars behind Simon’s.

And so, here you are, sitting alone in a tucked-away booth of a pub, lacking friends when everybody else meets theirs. You retrieved your compact powder, discreetly aiming it toward where Simon was seated at the bar, probably ordering his usual drink. Sweeping a quick glance around, you wonder if this is the place he haunted while vanishing from your presence.

When the bartender returned with his order, you watched them exchange a few words—a short conversation, typical Simon. The bartender left him to serve another, and Simon enjoyed the quiet alone time with a sip of the amber-brown liquid.

Simon was… well, the same. You didn’t expect these times to change a man like him, but watching his unaltered demeanor—lost in his own world, focused only on his own business—felt like a soothing balm on your longing. He was wearing the same leather jacket, but you couldn’t help but notice that his hair seemed shorter—he had recently gotten a trim.

Everything about him seemed so… unchanged, so constant, that it was almost jarring when he suddenly shifted his head and gazed at someone you hadn’t noticed before.

“’Ello, there. Mind if I sit with you?”

It was a blonde woman, lips drawn into a flirtatious smile. Your throat tightened, your heart began to race as you heard Simon’s response.

“’Course not.”

The woman beamed. Your breath hitched, yet the woman beamed, sliding onto the barstool next to him with her shoulders open—her body language inviting him in, as if whispering to him to come closer, closer, closer—and he will find a fruit sweeter, riper than—

You.

The two of them exchanged a conversation too quiet for you to hear. You pressed your spine against your booth chair, straining your ears to catch even the slightest snippet of their conversation. Simon’s words barely reached your ears, but you managed to hear his response to whatever the woman said.

“’s my usual spot.”

The woman nodded, curving her smile wider. “Well, lucky for me, then,” she purred, voice dripping with suggestive tone. “My girls ditched me, so I was hopin’ to find someone to keep me company.”

You hear him snort. From the side profile, you can see Simon smiling at her words—and it burns your chest. He raises his glass, taking a long pull of his whiskey as if he’s preparing to entertain her more. Stop. Take your eyes off her. Don’t look at her like that. Don’t look at her at all.

“’s that so?” he replied, tone laced with a hint of amusement and something else. “An' you thought I'd be the right person to come to, did you?”

“Well, I certainly ‘oped so,” she said. “You’re not married, are you?”

Simon shakes his head. “’M not married.”

She leans in a bit closer, and your fingers turn pale around your compact powder. “An’ not with anyone? Anythin’?”

Like the woman, you still your breath waiting for his answer. Perhaps he will say yes and reject her proposition entirely. Or at the very least, he will consider you to be a near-answer before responding. The air you’re holding in begins to choke you like a boa constrictor, causing your eyes to water and your lower eyelids to moisten.

Far from your expectations, Simon finds his answer quickly and without hesitation, “Nope.”

Everything in you shrinks into what it once was—nothingness. You feel yourself slowly unraveling, like a thread being pulled apart. The world around you is blurred—Simon’s reflection in the mirror of your compact powder blurred. You take a shaky breath, brow furrowed as you burn holes in the stranger you now despise so much. The liquid smooth you brought to this city has been turned into a scalding, caustic torrent, burning mercilessly even to its master.

When you came back to reality, they were both already standing, Simon closing the tab and making his way towards the backdoor with her. You turned your head, watching them disappear behind the old wood.

With all that's been presented before you, it should be enough for you to get up and walk away—to spare yourself from another twist of the knife. Somewhere within, a voice seems to whisper that you don’t need this—that you have suffered so much, that you don’t need to do this to satisfy whatever found amusement in your own heartache. That you can walk away, let him slip away if necessary.

(Why did you let that man walk away?)

But you are nothing if not obsessive. The urge to uncover the truth, to confirm everything even at the cost of your own destruction. You will push your sanity to the brink where you will find the end.

Summoning what little courage is left, you stand up and begin retracing their invisible footprints, making your way towards the backdoor. As you pushed it open, you were greeted by the sight of a dark, empty alley, with your ragged breath as the only sound.

But when you reached the other end of the alley, the silence faded away as hushed whispers and soft sounds filled the air. Alarms went off in the back of your head—it only meant one thing—but you ignored it. Instead, you slowed your steps, hiding behind the crumbling brick wall, and peeked around the corner.

There they were. Simon and the woman, locked in a deep, passionate kiss. His body pressed against hers as she wrapped her legs around his waist in a way that made your stomach churn. The hands you knew so well cupped her jaw like he did to you as he dragged his lips down her exposed neck. Just like he did to you.

A strangled sound escaped your mouth; you covered it to prevent another. You felt your eyes burning, yet you couldn’t tear your gaze away from the show. Spare me, your heart begged, yet you let your ears continue to listen to them.

The sound of a zipper being lowered cuts through the air. Simon lifted her dress, and you watched in morbid fascination as he snapped his hips forward. She lets out a loud moan. Your head throbbed, the pulsing pain matching the rapid beating of your heart. The burn inside you was almost unbearable, and you felt your breath shortening, vision blurring as you grew lightheaded.

You couldn’t bear to watch anymore. With shaking limbs, you walk away from them. The acid reaches your throat—the next second, you're hunched over, vomiting onto the cold, hard concrete.

And suddenly, everything feels like a fever dream—a repetitive loop that leaves you feeling both light and heavy. You exist, but you don't really exist; you're breathing, but you're not really breathing. The cobblestones stare back at you, their edges thickened, spreading like black blood. Beside them, your hands are shaking, and when you turn them over, you realize they’ve always been this way—open, fingers stretched to their maximum.

Like they're grasping for something out of reach.

Here you are.

Surrounded by unfamiliar buildings in an even more unfamiliar city. Yet, the hollowing abyss within you is anything but a stranger. In truth, it's probably all you've truly known throughout your entire life before you dared to believe you could become something beyond this yawning emptiness—the chasm where every ounce of love and all the things you've held dear have been mercilessly flushed away.

When you sob again, you choke. Gravel scrapes your skin as you kneel down,  resembling a devout soul pleading to the heavens. It isn't devotion that drives your supplications, but rather fear—and perhaps that's why your fervid entreaties never find an answer.

“Why did you let that man walk away?”

Change the prophecy, change the prophecy, you beg. Make him love me, let him love me.

(But, is it his love you truly seek, or simply the proof that it brings?

Or is it a bit of both?)

Surrounded by unfamiliar buildings in an even more unfamiliar city, you taste the saltiness of your own tears on your lips. Release me. Release me from this pain—from this curse. Make him love me. Prove me right, prove her wrong. All these demands, and yet, the voracious pain continues to spread like an all-consuming malady.

It gave you an open eye.

How pathetic you must’ve looked—like a crumpled, wretched thing, curled on the dirty sidewalk while Simon was still there in the alley, digging his fingers into the hips of another woman. You could almost feel it—the phantom of his touch, the sounds he used to make. You knew he would kiss her just as he had kissed you—he would make her feel good, the way he had always made you feel.

And you knew—you just knew—that she would fall for him, just as you had.

But this time, he would love her back.

Because she wasn’t you.

@strawberrygato @aprosiacperson @chipsbuttercream @arrozyfrijoles23 @pastel-devil-06 @rroseskull

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[littlelamy]

𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙮 𝙤𝙣

𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙦𝙪𝙚!𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝐱 𝐫𝐚𝐟𝐞

The room was quiet except for the distant hum of the air conditioner as you smoothed your hands over the velvet fabric of your new costume. It was different—dark and sultry in a way that would leave the audience restless. The black sequins glimmered under the soft light, and the sheer panels revealed enough to tease while still leaving room for imagination. It was tailored to perfection, designed to make an impact.

But tonight, you didn’t care about the stage. Tonight, you wanted his opinion.

“Alright, Rafe. I need your input,” you called over your shoulder as you stepped out of the bedroom and into the living room.

Rafe was sprawled on the couch like always, his phone in his hand, legs wide like he had all the time in the world. The moment he looked up, though, his entire body tensed. The phone slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a soft thud, but he didn’t even seem to notice.

His eyes dragged over you, slow and deliberate, darkening with every inch he took in. Your heels clicked against the floor as you stepped toward him, but he didn’t move. He didn’t blink. It was like he was afraid to breathe.

You smirked, shifting your weight and letting your hip jut out just slightly. “Well? Don’t leave me hanging.”

Rafe exhaled a curse, low and breathless, raking a hand through his hair. “Fuck.”

“That’s not very constructive,” you teased, pretending not to notice the way his gaze lingered on the sheer cutouts that framed your curves. “I’m serious, Rafe. I need feedback. I’m trying something... different.”

He laughed, but it came out hollow, almost strained. His knuckles were white where his hands gripped his knees, like he was physically holding himself back. “Feedback?” he repeated, his voice rough. “What the hell am I supposed to say? You want me to critique that?”

You bit back a grin, enjoying how unhinged he looked—his chest rising and falling just a little too fast, his eyes flicking between your face and the curves of your body like he couldn’t decide where to focus.

“Yes,” you said simply, stepping closer. The lights overhead hit the sequins just right, making the black fabric sparkle like a night sky. You stopped in front of him, close enough that you could smell his cologne and the faint lingering scent of cigarettes. “Be honest. Does it work?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned back into the couch, his gaze still glued to you as he dragged his teeth over his bottom lip. You recognized that look—it was the one he gave you when he was teetering between self-control and whatever darker urges were running through his mind.

Finally, he exhaled, shaking his head with a low, humorless laugh. “It works. Jesus, it works,” he muttered, tilting his head to look up at you. “You’re gonna fucking kill someone wearing that.”

You smirked, tilting your head as you reached out and traced a finger along his shoulder. “That’s the idea.”

His eyes snapped to yours, dark and dangerous. His hands twitched against his knees like he wanted to grab you, but he stayed still, watching you with the kind of hunger that made heat pool low in your stomach.

“Rafe,” you teased softly, running your fingers down his arm, feeling the muscles flex under your touch. “Are you seriously going to sit there and act like this doesn’t do anything for you?”

He let out a low groan, his head falling back against the couch. “You know what it does to me. You’re just trying to fuck with me now.”

You laughed softly, trailing your hand lower until it brushed against his wrist. “Maybe. But I still need more than ‘it’s hot as hell.’”

Before you could say anything else, his hands shot out, gripping your hips and pulling you down onto his lap in one swift motion. You gasped, your hands bracing against his chest as you found yourself straddling him. His fingers pressed into the velvet fabric of your costume, holding you in place as he looked up at you.

“You want my opinion?” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly. “Fine. It’s perfect. You’re perfect. And if you go on stage in this, you’re gonna make every guy in the room lose his goddamn mind.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse quickening as his hands slid over your hips, slow and deliberate. “And you?” you asked softly, your voice quieter now. “Does it make you lose your mind?”

Rafe’s lips curled into a lazy smirk, but his eyes were still dark, his grip on your waist tightening. “You have no fucking idea.”

His hands moved lower, tracing the curves of your thighs where the costume ended. The heat of his touch burned through the fabric, and you shivered despite yourself. He noticed, of course—he always noticed—and his smirk widened.

“Rafe,” you murmured, trying to sound scolding, but it came out breathless instead.

“What?” he said, feigning innocence as his fingers trailed upward again, dipping just beneath the edge of the sheer paneling. “You’re the one who asked for my input.”

“You’re not being very helpful.”

“I’m being honest,” he shot back, his voice dropping lower as his hands spread over your hips, pulling you down just a little harder against him. You felt the heat of him through his jeans, and the realization sent a flush creeping up your neck.

Your hands tightened against his chest as you tried to steady yourself. “I didn’t think you’d lose your composure this quickly.”

Rafe let out a low, almost mocking laugh. “Babe, you walked out here looking like a goddamn fantasy, and you expected me to sit there like nothing’s happening?”

You opened your mouth to retort, but his hands were on the back of your thighs now, sliding up and over the delicate fabric as he leaned closer. “If you’re gonna wear this for me,” he murmured against your ear, his breath hot against your skin, “you better be ready for what comes next.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and suddenly his lips were on yours—hard and demanding, his hands gripping you like he was afraid you might disappear. You melted into him, your fingers tangling in his hair as you kissed him back with just as much fervor.

He groaned softly against your lips, pulling you even closer until there wasn’t a single inch of space left between you. You could feel him—all of him—and it sent a spark of heat straight through you.

“Rafe,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly as you pulled back just enough to look at him. His pupils were blown, his breathing ragged as he stared up at you.

“I’m serious,” he said, his voice rough and raw. “You can’t show this to anyone else.”

You laughed softly, brushing your lips against his again. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I mean it.” His hands tightened on your thighs as his gaze locked onto yours. “This is mine.”

Your stomach flipped at the possessiveness in his tone, but you couldn’t bring yourself to argue.

Not when his lips were back on yours, and his hands were sliding over your body with a determination that left you breathless. This is where you belong.

taglist: @namelesslosers @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @aariahnaa @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog

credits to @anitalenia for the divider <3

[delulustateofmind]

Get Ghost'd!

Sum: So you ghosted a guy that like really, really likes you, what could possibly go wrong?

Characters: Gojo, Geto, Choso

TW: Yandere Behaviors (Drugging, Stalking, Obsession, Kidnapping, Trapping, Manipulation) Slight wholesome fluff? Older woman (5-10 years) x Gojo, Noncon smooches (Gojo), The girls are around 7 in this so young cult leader geto (Not as deranged yet but getting there), Choso's is more crack (Todo is mentioned)

WC: 6.1K

A/N: I was just only going to do Geto...but then I thought about all the other JJK characters that would just go so crazy if you just ignored them. No Nanami, because he's a good man and would respect it if you ignored him.

Bold of you to assume you could just ghost the strongest-

Gojo Satoru had left his number for you.

He didn’t usually do that sort of thing—relationships were messy, and he simply didn’t have the time. Not with the weight of his responsibilities and the constant demands on his talent.

But then there was you, Megumi’s sweet next-door neighbor. The one who went out of your way to drop off food for the kids, who somehow managed to fold their laundry just the way they liked it. How could he not leave his number?

After all, he was the brat’s caretaker now, their benefactor. And, well, he could be your benefactor too, if you asked. Not even nicely—he’d do it if you so much as batted those pretty eyelashes at him and gave him one of those soft, shy smiles.

So why hadn’t you texted?

You had the time to make food for the kids. You had the time to do their laundry. But not even a reply for him? Not even a polite “Please don’t contact me”?

He tried to let it slide. Maybe you were nervous, unsure how to handle someone like him. He was Gojo Satoru, after all. But the more he thought about it, the harder it was to ignore the sting of your silence.

He wasn’t unreasonable—he understood the age gap might make you hesitate. He was freshly twenty, probably a few years younger than you. But honestly? That should work in his favor. How often does a hot, young stud go out of his way for someone like you?

You should be relishing in his attention. Cherishing the fact that he’d chosen you. Because let’s face it—you weren’t getting any younger. You should really consider settling for him.

No—scratch that. You should be grateful.

And yet, here you were, acting like he didn’t exist.

The knock on your door came late, almost too late for it to be anything casual. The soft thud echoed through your small apartment, catching you mid-step as you were putting away the last of the laundry.

When you opened the door, you weren’t prepared for the sight of him.

Gojo Satoru stood there, tall and imposing, framed by the dim glow of the hallway light. His white hair caught the faint light, tousled in that effortlessly perfect way. His signature round glasses perched low on his nose, revealing piercing blue eyes that seemed to glow, unblinking, as they locked onto yours.

His hands were stuffed casually into his pockets, his lean frame relaxed, but the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his easygoing facade.

“Hey,” he greeted, voice as light as ever, but there was a sharpness in his eyes that made your stomach twist. “You’ve been busy, huh?”

You blinked, thrown off by his sudden appearance. “Gojo? What are you doing here?”

He tilted his head, a teasing grin spreading across his face, his impossibly white teeth gleaming. “Satoru,” he corrected. “I think we’re close enough for that, don’t you?”

You faltered, searching for a polite response, but he didn’t give you the chance.

“Not even a little text?” he continued, stepping just a fraction closer. “I left my number, you know. Thought it was pretty obvious I wanted to hear from you.”

“Oh,” you mumbled, suddenly hyper-aware of how small the doorway felt between you. “I’m sorry—I’ve been really busy with work and helping out with Megumi and—”

He laughed, cutting you off. It was light, almost playful, but there was something unsettling about it. “Oh, I know. You’ve been making food for the kids, doing their laundry, running yourself ragged for them. But for me?” He leaned in slightly, his height forcing you to crane your neck to meet his gaze. “Not even a second of your time?”

Your throat tightened. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” he said, voice soft but dripping with something you couldn’t quite name. “I get it. Maybe you’re nervous. Maybe you think I’m too young, or you’re just not sure what to say to someone like me.” His grin widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “But you’re not avoiding me, are you?”

The way he said it made your pulse quicken.

“N-no, of course not,” you stammered, taking an instinctive step back.

“Good,” he said smoothly, taking a step forward as if he belonged inside your space. “Because I’d hate for there to be any misunderstandings between us. I mean, I’m just trying to look out for you.”

His gaze flicked over your shoulder at the neatly folded laundry behind you, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. “All this running around for the kids? It’s sweet, really. But you should be taking better care of yourself, too.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his presence pressing in on you. “I… I’m fine, really. I just—”

“Just need someone to help you out,” he interrupted, his voice dropping to something softer, almost coaxing. “You do so much for everyone else. Don’t you think you deserve someone to take care of you for a change?”

There was a strange intensity in his gaze now, an undercurrent of something far more dangerous than his usual teasing charm.

“Satoru, I—”

“I could do that, you know,” he murmured, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from your face. His touch lingered, his long fingers trailing along your jaw just enough to make your skin crawl. “Take care of everything. You wouldn’t have to lift a finger.”

“I don’t think that’s—”

“Actually,” he cut in, his tone suddenly shifting, “I’ve been thinking. This arrangement? You here, me over there with the brats—it doesn’t make sense.”

You blinked, unsure if you’d heard him correctly. “What do you mean?”

He gave you a boyish grin, as if what he was about to say was the most obvious thing in the world. “We should live together.”

Your heart stopped for a moment. “W-what?”

“Think about it,” he said, stepping past you into your apartment without so much as a glance for permission. His long legs carried him casually across the room, but the tension in his movements was unmistakable. His sharp gaze darted over your space, the faint scowl on his face deepening as if your cozy apartment wasn’t quite up to his standards.

“You’re already taking care of Megumi and Tsumiki half the time,” he began, spinning around to face you, his white hair catching the dim light. His bright blue eyes locked onto yours, their intensity almost too much. “And my life? Well, let’s just say it’s dangerous.”

“Satoru, I don’t—”

“You’d be safer with me,” he interrupted, his tone sharper now, the usual playful lilt missing entirely. “And the kids, too. We’d be one big happy family. You wouldn’t have to worry about bills or working yourself to the bone anymore—I’d handle everything.”

He said it like he was doing you a favor. Like it was something you should have already agreed to without hesitation.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you managed, your voice shaking slightly.

His expression twisted, the easygoing mask slipping entirely as frustration bled into his tone. “Why not? It makes perfect sense!” he snapped, his arms spreading wide in a gesture of exasperation. “You’re already basically living this life anyway, aren’t you? Cooking, cleaning, running yourself ragged for them. But when it comes to me? Nothing. Not a single second of your time!”

His words hit like a slap, the bitterness in his voice leaving you momentarily stunned.

“I didn’t ask for that,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Well, maybe you should have!” he retorted, his lips pulling into a sharp, mocking grin. “You’re fine on your own, huh? Sure, because that’s working so well for you. You think you’re being independent, but all I see is someone too stubborn to accept help—even when it’s standing right in front of you!”

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his anger pressing down on you.

He laughed then, but it was humorless, the sound cutting through the air like broken glass. “You’re too sweet for your own good, you know that? You run around helping everyone else, but you can’t even give me a second of your attention. What’s the matter, huh? Am I not good enough for you?”

“Satoru, that’s not fair—”

“Not fair?” he interrupted, stepping closer, his height towering over you as his blue eyes narrowed dangerously. “You want to talk about fair? I’m offering you everything—safety, security, a life, and you’re standing here acting like I’m some stranger asking for a handout!”

His words stung, his frustration bubbling over into something meaner, something sharper.

“I’m fine on my own,” you insisted again, though your voice was barely more than a whisper.

“No, you’re not,” he spat, his tone venomous now. “You’re delusional if you think you are. You’re just making excuses because you’re too scared to admit you need me.” He shook his head, his grin returning, bitter and condescending. “But that’s okay. I’ll fix that for you.”

Before you could respond, his hands shot up to cup your face, his long fingers curling just enough to hold you in place. His grip was firm, unrelenting, as his piercing blue eyes bore into yours.

“Stop overthinking it,” he murmured, his voice low and coaxing, though his words felt more like a command than reassurance. “You’re wasting time. I know what’s best for you. And it’s me.”

You barely had time to gasp before his lips crashed against yours. The kiss wasn’t tender or affectionate—it was rough, forceful, and far too intense. His teeth scraped against your bottom lip, cutting into the dryness of them causing a ting of blood to pool at the skin, the pressure somewhere between biting and bruising, as if he were marking you rather than kissing you.

Your hands flew up instinctively to push against his chest, but he didn’t budge. His arms slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him, his grip like iron. Every movement was desperate, consuming, and entirely unyielding.

“Satoru, stop,” you tried to mumble against his mouth, but he swallowed the words with another bruising kiss. It felt suffocating, as if he were trying to imprint himself on you—erase any thought of resistance.

When he finally pulled back, your lips felt swollen and raw, your breath coming in shallow gasps. But the worst part wasn’t the kiss itself—it was the look in his eyes.

They were bright, almost gleaming with satisfaction, but there was something beneath the surface.

He licked his lips, his smirk widening as he took in your dazed expression. “See?” he said, his voice a low murmur that sent a chill down your spine. “You’re already mine. You just don’t realize it yet.”

You stared at him, your heart racing as you tried to step back, but his hands were still on your waist, holding you in place.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he continued, his tone almost soothing now, though it carried an eerie finality. “You’ll see. This is what’s best. For you. For the kids. For all of us.”

His grip loosened just enough for you to pull away, but as you stumbled back, his eyes stayed locked on you, sharp and unrelenting.

“And don’t even think about running,” he added, his voice soft but chilling. “You won’t get far. I’ll make sure of it.”

Because Gojo Satoru didn’t lose. And you weren’t going anywhere.

I think I may have just ghosted a cult leader, how fucked am I? 

Geto Suguru sat in his living room, legs tucked beneath the kotatsu table, where the twins lay watching Ponyo for what felt like the hundredth time today. The familiar opera intro played, but he barely noticed it, he had lost count of how many times he'd have to endure it. His sleek, dark hair fell loosely over his shoulders, the ends brushing the fabric of his yukata, and a faint shadow from his sharp cheekbones danced across his face in the flickering light.

The DVD would end up in the highest cabinet soon, stored away with the Sailor Moon box set. Only to pretend later on that he has no idea of where the discs went, that the twins should really take better care of their things.

His tea sat untouched on the table, long gone cold as he stared at his phone. Three days since you’d last messaged him. Four since he’d seen you. His dark eyes, always so calculating and composed, narrowed slightly as he swiped through the unread threads of his polite but unanswered messages. He told himself it was fine, that you were busy, but the creeping unease in his chest said otherwise.

Being ignored was new to him, something he hadn’t experienced in years. Women had always sought him out, drawn by the quiet intensity of his gaze, the sharp elegance of his jawline, and the magnetic calm that seemed to follow him like a shadow. They threw themselves at him, eager for a glance, a touch, a word.

But you? You were different. Sweet, shy, and delicate. A part of him had loved that about you. Now it gnawed at him.

Had you used him?

The thought was intrusive, bitter, but it refused to leave. He’d erased your debt, lifted the curse that had plagued you, welcomed you into his home—and into his life. He’d done it all for you, because your smile had been enough. The way it softened your features and brightened your eyes—he couldn’t forget it. You made the darkness in his world feel lighter.

But maybe it wasn’t enough for you.

Maybe you’d only stayed because you owed him. Maybe, now that you were free, you saw no reason to stay.

His hands tightened into fists, the phone shaking slightly in his grasp.

Staring at his phone, he reread the messages he’d sent you over the past few days:

"Hope you got home safe." "The snow’s falling. The girls have been asking when you’ll come over for hot cocoa." "Good morning. Please eat well." "Did you drink water today?"

What he wanted to send was, "Was the kiss too much?"

But every time he typed it out, his thumb hovered over the send button before deleting it. He’d even tried adding an emoji once, only to groan in frustration. Giving up, he reached for the twins, pulling them into a big hug. Their squeals of delight momentarily distracted him as he tickled their sides before letting them go. They returned to their movie, leaving him on the floor, still staring at his phone.

Why did you look at him with those wide, innocent eyes when he cradled your cheek and kissed you goodbye? Why did you press your warm hands against his chest, trembling as you murmured, “We shouldn’t”?

We definitely should, was all he wanted to say.

He had wanted to kiss you ever since that day you ended up babysitting the girls in his apartment. The kitchen was filled with laughter as Nanako sat on the counter, mixing a bowl of cupcake batter, while Mimiko dozed in your arms. You worked together to bake cookies, the domestic scene so painfully perfect it left an impression he couldn’t shake.

You’d cook for him on nights when he came home late, too busy with cult duties to eat. Sometimes you’d bring a spoon to his lips, letting him taste-test your dishes, though they never needed anything. They were always perfect—just like you.

You should have stayed.

You should have realized how much he needed you, how much the girls needed you.

And yet, deep down, he knew why you might not.

You were a non-sorcerer.

The thought of it, the implications of it, only deepened his frustration. How could you fit into his new world—a world built to eliminate people like you? People who didn’t understand the true horrors of jujutsu, who were blind to the curses lurking in the shadows. His grand plan, his vision for a better, cleaner world, was supposed to make everything simpler. Sorcerers would rule, and the weak would fall away.

But you…

You were the exception.

Suguru hated that about himself, hated that he would allow one tiny thread to unravel the tapestry he’d been weaving. You didn’t belong in the world he was building, yet you were the one piece he couldn’t let go of.

How could he protect you in a world where the strong would reign? Where weakness—your weakness—would be punished?

The memory of your laugh cut through the haze of his thoughts. It had been so genuine, so sweet, so human. You didn’t belong in his plans, and yet you did. You had to.

Because without you, his grand vision felt hollow. Without you, there was only emptiness.

His jaw clenched as the realization solidified. You didn’t understand it yet, but he was doing this for you. For the girls. For all of them. But mostly, for himself.

He would protect you from the world he was creating. No one would touch you. No one would harm you. You’d live in safety, as his. His alone.

The phone screen lit up, mocking him with your silence. He could see when you read his messages. That was the cruelest part. You weren’t gone. You were ignoring him.

He rubbed a hand over his face, the smooth planes of his features momentarily obscured as he exhaled through gritted teeth. Maybe he’d been too soft with you. Maybe you thought you could just walk away now that the curse was gone, now that you didn’t owe him anything.

But you were wrong. You owed him everything.

The girls needed a mother. He needed you. The thought of you living a life without him, smiling for someone else, was unbearable. His lips twisted into a bitter smile as he typed out another message.

"The girls miss you.""I miss you."

Suguru’s thumb hovered over the send button, his jaw tightening as he debated. Then, with a frustrated sigh, he erased the message. Words wouldn’t be enough. Not anymore.

You needed a reminder.

He picked up his phone again, this time dialing. His assistant, Manami, answered on the second ring, her tone eager—too eager, though he ignored it. Manami had always looked at him in a way that suggested she wanted more than her job description entailed. A part of him in the past would humor the affection. Yet, now he has you. .

“I need you to watch the girls,” he said, his voice clipped. “I’ll be out for a while, picking up a... gift for them.”

Manami didn’t question him, though her tone softened, as though she thought he was doing something noble. If only she knew.

As he ended the call, his gaze shifted to the cult’s records, neatly organized and as precise as always. He was thankful for the meticulous documentation; it gave him everything he needed. Not just your number, but your address, your emergency contacts, your employment details—more than enough to find you.

Suguru let his fingers trace the edge of the file, his dark eyes scanning the information. Every detail about you, laid out in front of him. You had no idea how easily you could be found.

You could try to run, try to disappear—but you were his from now on.

Grabbing his coat, Suguru stepped out into the snow, the icy wind stinging his face. Words had failed; now he’d remind you. 

The soft glow from your apartment window illuminated the snow-covered street. He didn’t knock when he reached your door. He didn’t need to. The door yielded easily, and he slipped inside, the faint warmth of your home wrapping around him. The contrast between the cold air outside and the heat within was sharp, almost dizzying, but he welcomed it.

The sound of your soft, uneven breaths reached his ears before he saw you. There you were, standing in the kitchen, a cup of tea clutched in your hands. Your shoulders sagged with exhaustion, and there was a faint sheen of sweat on your forehead despite the winter chill. He noticed the trembling in your hands, the red tinge to your nose, and the way your other hand clutched at your chest when you coughed—a deep, rattling sound that made his brow furrow for a fleeting moment.

You looked pale, worn down, and fragile. For a moment, the sight almost softened him. Almost.

Almost made him forget why he was there. Forget the punishments he had planned. The ways he would teach you to never leave him again.

But that fleeting moment of pity was snuffed out as quickly as it came, replaced by a darker, more resolute purpose.

You had to learn.

You had to understand what it meant to belong to him.

Suguru’s fingers flexed at his sides, his mind racing through the plans he had already set in motion. He would remind you of his power—show you what a real curse user was capable of. That as sweet as he can be, he can also be cruel.

If fear wasn’t enough, he had other methods. He had already prepared the sedatives, carefully measured and tucked into his coat pocket. Once the fight left your eyes—and it would—he would take you home.

Home, where you would learn your role.

You would become the mother the girls needed. His law was absolute in their eyes, and soon it would be the same for you.

And if you resisted? If you dared to reject him, even after all he’d done for you?

Suguru’s lips twitched into a faint smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. He didn’t want to think about that outcome, but he’d already considered it. Conditioned responses. Physical reminders. Unsavory methods. Honestly, he didn't want to hurt you. However, he needed you. The girls needed you.

No matter what it took, you would learn to stay. To belong.

Then you turned and saw him.

The teacup slipped from your hands, shattering against the floor. The sharp sound echoed in the tense silence that followed, but Suguru didn’t flinch. He tilted his head, his dark eyes locking onto yours, his expression unreadable.

“Ah,” he murmured, his voice soft and lilting, as though he were speaking to a child. “You’re sick.”

He stepped forward, his movements slow, deliberate, and predatory. The sight of your wide, fearful eyes only spurred him on.

“Too sick,” he continued, his tone warm but laced with an edge of mockery, “to even send me a little message?”

You stumbled back, your breath hitching as you pressed yourself against the counter. Your pale skin, the feverish flush to your cheeks, and the way you clutched at your chest as another cough wracked your body only made you seem more breakable.

Suguru stopped just a few steps away, watching as you trembled, your fear and exhaustion painting you as something delicate—something his.

“You’ve been suffering all alone,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, soothing hum. He reached out, his fingers brushing your wrist before curling around it with surprising gentleness.

“But don’t worry,” he murmured, leaning closer until his breath ghosted over your fevered skin. “I’m here now.”

He let his thumb stroke the inside of your wrist, his gaze unrelenting as his other hand moved to your cheek. The touch was soft, reverent even, but his dark eyes betrayed him, gleaming with something that made your stomach churn, something that sent shivers that weren’t from your cold.

“You’ve been making bad decisions, haven’t you?” he asked, his voice soft and sweet, though his words cut like glass. “Running yourself ragged. Avoiding me.”

His fingers tightened slightly around your wrist—not enough to hurt, but enough to make his control clear as you pathetically attempted to pull away.

“But it’s okay,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “I’ll take care of everything now.”

He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear as he murmured, his voice dripping with false kindness, “All you have to do is listen. Obey. I really didn’t want to have to go this route.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. His breath was warm against your fevered skin, his tone deceptively soft, as though he were doing you a favor.

You had never thought he was this interested in you. Suguru Geto was composed, almost aloof in how he carried himself—sharp features that seemed carved from stone, softened only by the flowing darkness of his hair. He had always been polite, controlled, and even gentle in his mannerisms, but you’d never felt singled out by his attention. Never thought the kindness in his deep, almond-shaped eyes was anything more than surface-level.

But now, as those same eyes pinned you in place, you realized how mistaken you’d been. His presence felt suffocating, the air between you charged with something you couldn’t name, and every movement he made was deliberate—calculated.

Suguru straightened slowly, his hand slipping from your wrist to his pocket, his movements unhurried and deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world. The room felt unbearably small under his presence, the heat of his gaze making your fevered skin prickle. His dark eyes never left yours, their intensity weighing down on you, as if he could see through the fragile walls of your thoughts.

When his fingers brushed the familiar shape of the syringe tucked into his coat pocket, his smile widened. It was subtle, almost imperceptible—a slight curve of his lips that revealed nothing of the storm swirling beneath his calm exterior. There it was—his failsafe. The assurance that you wouldn’t resist him any longer.

Your gaze flickered between his face and his hand, confusion and fear swimming in your fevered, glassy eyes. You wanted to protest, to push him away, but your body betrayed you. The trembling in your limbs, the bone-deep exhaustion, and the subtle pull of his voice, coaxing and unyielding, made it impossible to act.

Then, instinctively, you leaned into his touch, your trembling body seeking comfort, seeking something you didn’t understand. To him, it was perfect.

His hand, warm and firm, cupped your cheek as though you were fragile porcelain. The juxtaposition of his gentleness and the dark glint in his eyes made your stomach churn. He tilted his head slightly, the smooth cascade of his hair framing his face like a curtain, and his gaze softened, almost tender, as though he were truly savoring the moment.

Like the sweet lamb you were, you stepped willingly into the lion’s den.

“You’re coming home,” he said softly, his tone a mixture of mockery and affection. The weight of his words settled over you, heavy and inescapable, and you barely had time to comprehend them before you felt the sharp prick of the needle pierce your skin.

A startled gasp escaped your lips, but it was fleeting. The sedative coursed through your veins almost immediately, your body surrendering to the pull of unconsciousness.

Suguru caught you effortlessly as you fell, his arms wrapping around your limp form with an ease that betrayed just how much he had anticipated this moment. He cradled you against his chest with a gentleness that felt almost loving, the steady beat of his heart contrasting with the sinister gleam in his eyes.

“There we go,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering as though you were something precious. “Let’s get you home, Sweetheart.”

What the hell does ghosting even mean? What does spamming even mean? Poor fella is trying to figure out life. 

Now you had given poor Choso your number. Really, truly a mistake on your part. 

You thought he was hot—mysteriously so, with his brooding gaze and those face tattoos that made your heart skip a beat. It wasn’t a big deal, just a spur-of-the-moment thing when you spotted him at the bookstore while out with friends. You’d caught his eye, flashed him a smile, and casually slipped him your number on a whim.

What you didn’t realize was that poor Choso didn’t really know what to do with it.

For him, it was monumental. You didn’t just hand over your number; you handed over your heart. At least, that’s what Todo told him when Choso, unsure what the gesture meant, hesitantly sought advice. He couldn’t just ask his little brother these things, so he went to the expert about these things! After all, Todo was dating an idol! 

“She must be madly in love with you!” Todo had declared with his usual bombastic enthusiasm, clapping Choso on the shoulder so hard it nearly made him topple. “To give you her number without even talking? That’s destiny, brother! Love at first sight!”

And Choso believed him. Why wouldn’t he? Todo seemed confident, experienced.

So Choso, armed with Todo’s wisdom, started texting you.

And texting.

And texting.

At first, they were awkwardly sweet messages:

Choso: Hey. It’s Choso. From the bookstore. You gave me your number.Choso: Are you free to talk? I want to know more about you.

But then they kept coming.

Choso: Do you like horror books? Or romance? I can read both if you do.Choso: I saw a cat today. It reminded me of you.Choso: Do you like cats? I mean, not that you look like one. But you’re soft. Wait, not that I know if you’re soft. You just seem soft.

And then they started to come faster, his nervous overthinking spilling into endless walls of text.

Choso: Did I say something wrong? Are you upset with me?Choso: I hope I’m not bothering you. I just… I think we’d be good together.Choso: Please text me back. I can wait.

What Choso didn’t realize was that spamming someone all day wasn’t exactly endearing—it was overwhelming. But in his mind, the silence meant something entirely different.

“Todo,” Choso said one evening, sitting cross-legged on the floor of his apartment, his phone clutched in both hands. His dark brows furrowed as he stared at the unanswered messages. “She hasn’t responded. Do you think… do you think she’s playing hard to get?”

Todo grinned, throwing an arm around Choso’s shoulders. “Absolutely, brother! She’s testing your devotion. This is how women work. They want to see if you’re truly worthy.”

Choso nodded solemnly, his determination renewed. “I’ll show her. I’ll show her I’m serious.”

His solution? Doubling down.

When texting didn’t work, he tried calling. His voice shook the first few times—it felt so intimate, so real.

“Hi,” he murmured into the phone one evening after your voicemail picked up again. “It’s me. Choso. I just wanted to hear your voice. I miss you (the poor guy has only seen you one time). I mean—I know we haven’t talked much, but I miss you anyway (you have only exchanged names by the way). I think about you a lot. Please call me back when you can.”

And when the calls didn’t work, his thoughts began to spiral.

Was something wrong? Were you hurt? He’d seen it on TV—people ghosted because they couldn’t bring themselves to tell someone they were in trouble. Yes, that must be it.

So he started showing up.

First, it was just near the bookstore where he’d met you, hoping to “bump into” you. Then he wandered around the streets, retracing the route he thought you might take home.

Finally, he remembered the faint logo on your shopping bag that day, the one with your number scrawled on the receipt of. He found the shop, waited outside it for hours, hoping for a glimpse of you.

When he didn’t see you, his concern grew.

“Todo,” he said again one night, pacing his living room, his fingers tightening around his phone. “I don’t think she’s okay. She wouldn’t just ignore me like this. Not if she loved me.”

Todo shrugged, flipping through a magazine. “Maybe you need to show her how much you care. Do something big. Romantic.”

Choso froze, considering the advice. Todo was right. He just needed to show you.

And so, as you walked into your apartment the next evening, juggling groceries in both arms, you froze at the sight of a figure standing awkwardly in your living room.

“Choso?” you gasped, your heart leaping into your throat.You were already reaching for your phone. “How did you—”

He turned to you, a hesitant smile on his lips, his hands holding a bouquet of slightly wilted flowers. His dark eyes glimmered with a mixture of nervousness and relief, as if he were genuinely happy to see you.

“I was worried,” he said softly, stepping toward you. “You weren’t answering… so I thought I’d come check on you.” You had never given him your address. You had only given him your family name. 

You stared at him, your mind racing, caught somewhere between shock and fear.

Choso tilted his head, his brows furrowing in genuine confusion. “Did I… do something wrong?”

You stared at Choso, your groceries still in your arms, the door half-open behind you. He didn’t move any closer, but the sight of him standing there, so out of place in your living room, sent a chill down your spine.

“How… how did you get in here?” you managed, your voice trembling.

Choso blinked, tilting his head slightly as if you’d asked him a question he didn’t understand. “Your lock wasn’t very secure,” he said simply, holding up what looked like a slim piece of metal. “I was worried. You haven’t been responding, and I thought something might have happened to you.”

The sincerity in his voice was almost disarming, but the implication of his words made your skin crawl.

“Choso,” you said slowly, setting the groceries down on the counter and keeping the island between you as a buffer, “you can’t just… break into someone’s home.”

His brows furrowed, genuine confusion flickering across his face. “I wasn’t breaking in,” he said softly, almost as if the accusation hurt him. “I just needed to make sure you were okay. You haven’t been answering me, and I thought…” His voice trailed off, and he glanced at the flowers in his hands, his grip tightening slightly around the stems.

“I’ve been busy,” you said, trying to keep your tone steady. “You didn’t need to do this. I’m fine.”

“But you’re not,” he said quietly, his dark eyes meeting yours. There was an intensity in his gaze, like he truly believed every word he was saying. “You’re not fine. If you were, you would’ve answered me. Something must be wrong.”

“No, Choso,” you said firmly, taking a deep breath. “I wasn’t ignoring you because something’s wrong. I’ve just been busy with work and other things. And honestly… you’re sending way too many messages. It’s overwhelming.”

His face fell, the fragile hope in his expression crumbling. “Overwhelming?” he echoed, as if the word were foreign to him. “But I thought… I thought you wanted me to care about you.”

You hesitated, the raw vulnerability in his voice making your stomach twist. “Choso, I gave you my number because I thought you seemed nice. That’s all. I didn’t mean for this to… to go this far.”

He stared at you, unblinking, as if trying to process your words. The silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating.

Finally, he spoke, his voice trembling slightly. “So… you don’t want me to care about you?”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” you said quickly, trying to keep your tone gentle. “I just think maybe you’ve misunderstood. I didn’t mean for you to think… we were something more.”

His grip on the flowers tightened, the fragile petals crumpling beneath his fingers. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, his eyes distant as if he were lost in thought.

Then, slowly, he nodded. “I understand,” he murmured, though his tone was unsettlingly calm. “You’ve been busy. You’ve been… overwhelmed.”

You exhaled in relief, thinking maybe he’d finally gotten the message. But then he looked up at you again, his eyes bright with a strange, unsettling determination.

“I’ll just come check on you more often,” he said, his voice soft but firm, as if he’d made up his mind.

Your heart sank. “Choso, that’s not—”

“No, it’s okay,” he interrupted, his tone almost cheerful now. “You don’t have to feel bad. I know you’re busy, and sometimes it’s hard to keep up with everything. But I can help. I can make sure you’re okay. You shouldn’t have to do everything on your own.”

The way he said it, so matter-of-factly, made your blood run cold.

“You don’t need to do that,” you said quickly, your voice trembling. “I’m fine, really. You don’t need to check on me.”

“But I want to,” he insisted, his expression softening with something that almost looked like affection. “I care about you. Isn’t that what you want? Someone who cares?”

You stepped back, the counter pressing into your spine as you tried to put more distance between you. “Choso, this isn’t—”

“It’s okay,” he said again, cutting you off with a small, reassuring smile. “I’ll make it work. You don’t have to say anything now. I’ll take care of it.”

Before you could respond, he stepped toward the door, his movements deliberate and unhurried.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said softly, glancing over his shoulder with a faint smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re never too busy again.”

And then he was gone, leaving the faint scent of crushed flowers in the air.

You locked the door behind him, your hands trembling as you slid the deadbolt into place. The faint scent of crushed flowers still lingered in the air, a sickly-sweet reminder of his presence.

For a moment, the silence felt almost deafening. You stared at the door, hoping—praying—that this would be the end of it.

Choso didn’t understand.

He didn’t understand boundaries, didn’t understand what his actions meant to you. To him, this wasn’t wrong—it was pure love. That you must love him too. 

[jjkfanfic]

Satoru Gojo and You

As you sat in the warm glow of the setting sun, Satoru Gojo ambled over, his blindfold still snugly wrapped around his eyes. There was a playful air about him as usual and you couldn’t help but smile at him.

“Taking a break from all the action?” he asked, leaning casually against the bench.

“Just enjoying a moment of peace,” you replied, meeting his gaze, even though it was hidden from you, you knew he could see you.

In a flash, he scooped you up effortlessly, holding you against him, making to wrap your legs around his waist. “Now you’ve got the world’s strongest sorcerer at your service!"

“Gojo! What are you doing?” you exclaimed, laughter bubbling out as you clung to his shoulders.

“Saving you from boredom,” he declared dramatically, twinkling mischief in his voice.

With him so close, you felt a pulse of courage, grinning playfully. Your hands moved to his blindfold. “How about a little unveiling?”

His breath hitched in surprise as you pulled the blindfold off, revealing his striking blue eyes. “Oh? You’re bold today,” he teased, a smirk dancing on his lips. “Does this mean you want to take my place and wear it?”

You flushed, caught off guard by the suggestion. “What? Me? I don’t know about that…”

“Come on, it’s only fair,” he said, his tone teasing but full of warmth. “You look good in any outfit, but you’d rock my blindfold like a pro.”

With your heart racing, you looked into his playful gaze. “You’re impossible,” you replied, trying to hide your smile, but the flutter in your chest said otherwise.

“Only for you,” he said softly, drawing you a little closer.

With a playful glint in his eye, Gojo grabbed the blindfold from you.

“How about a little game?” he suggested, his voice dripping with charm. Before you could respond, he gently slid the blindfold over your eyes, leaving you in a dark, veiled world.

“Now you’re in my shoes,” he murmured, his tone low and teasing. You could feel the warmth of his presence, a comforting weight, he held you against his waist, your legs were wrapped around him and his hand holding your ass.

“Gojo, I can’t see anything!” you laughed, trying to peer through the fabric.

“Exactly! Not so easy, is it?” He leaned in closer, his breath brushing against your face. “But I can help you with that…”

He placed a light, teasing touch on your chin, guiding your face toward his. Your heart raced, anticipation hanging in the air. “Let’s see if you can handle it,” he whispered, a playful challenge in his voice.

Before you could reply, his lips found yours—a soft, lingering kiss that sent sparks through you, igniting every nerve with warmth. You melted into the moment, feeling the world fade away, replaced by the sweetness of his touch.

As his lips moved against yours, time seemed to stand still. You forgot the training, the students, and all the chaos of Jujutsu High. It was just you and him, sharing a world all your own. And what a wonderful world it was.

[shallowseeker]

"We see a glimmer of emotional despair and blame lobbed at Cas which is… fascinating" out of curiosity and for clarification, what was the emotional despair lobbed at castiel? im reading the transcript and am not quite sure

Confession: This is conjecture on my part.

I feel like this scene in Ouroboros is ofc course directed at all of Dean's loved ones, as they were all working to convince Dean to stay alive.

But imho, here: Dean's squared up to Cas.

And Cas squares up to him,

while Sam's body instinctually takes on the body language of a peacemaker between them.

(Also// We as audience have the diner scene between Dean and Cas fresh on our minds: DEAN: "Okay. But if -- if you don't we still have Plan B. ... Coffin. Ocean. Done.")

Sam's not exactly "getting it," but I think his subconscious must understand something of it, maybe...

///

I think the emotional despair that seems be more directed at Cas isn’t blame in the traditional sense but rather a reflection of Dean’s internal conflict.

I think Cas represents something Dean deeply struggles with—his own desires.

Cas, along with Jack, symbolizes hope and the possibility of a particular kind of future happiness, which Dean has been convinced that he’s not "allowed" to want. He has to be covert about it, to take a meager, starved kind of approach to his own happiness. (Note: Dean is allowed to enter family units and support others, but he's rarely allowed to "need" something/someone for himself in earnest.)

There's 14x10's almost-happiness: "DEAN: This bar -- This bar -- This bar -- I've never had anything this nice. Rocky's still isn't for sale."

And 2x20's DJINN CARMEN as she walks up to him, taking his face in her hands, kissing him* CARMEN: We can have a future together. Have our own family. I love you, Dean. Please."

And of course 8x17's DEAN: "I know you're in there. *CASTIEL raises his angel blade, ready to strike.* I know you can hear me. Cas... *DEAN's voice breaks, pleading.* It's me. *CASTIEL stands there, blade at the ready, light glints off the blade.* We're family. We need you. I need you."

And what's even more sickening? AU Michael's words later work to inflame this: "If only Dean had used that coffin when he had the chance."

(Aside/// And likewise, The Empty's deal works to convince Cas of the same thing, that he's not "allowed" to feel personal happiness or express love without dire consequences!)

/// Anyway, I think Dean’s decision not to say goodbye to Cas and Jack in 14x12 does stand in stark contrast to his other behaviors: hugging Sam, eating last meals with Mary and Donna, etc. I think this difference highlights how unique and emotionally complicated his relationships with Cas and Jack are. Dean’s reasoning—“I don’t need to get shaky on this thing”—reveals his fear of losing resolve if he faces them directly. (It's even unlike Lisa, whose goodbye was bittersweet but clean.)

In a nutshell, saying goodbye to Cas and Jack would force Dean to confront the depth of his attachments, making it harder to follow through with his sacrifice. (Or, per the script, it would make Dean himself "too emotional.")

SAM: You know, Mom hates this. I hate this... And Cas and Jack, you haven’t even told them. DEAN: Okay, well, yeah, that’s because I’m not good with the whole big goodbyes, alright? I-I-I don’t need to get shaky on this thing. SAM: Wouldn't be the worst thing.

Overall, Dean fears his resolve will weaken, that his emotions will spill out uncontrollably, revealing more than he intends, or that his goodbye would overburden Cas and cause him strife—because, much like Cas with his Empty deal, Dean doesn’t want to burden him.

Both Dean and Cas share a deeply ingrained sense of self-denial, prioritizing protecting others over addressing their own emotional needs.

I feel like The Gorgon’s line in Ouroboros, “Oh… you definitely want things,” brings this to the surface, as does AU Michael’s taunts. All season long, Michael asked his victims: "What do you want?"

Notably, Dream!Pamela says to Dean: "Why do you always want what you can't have?" And finally, AU Micheal's: “If only Dean had used that coffin when he had the chance.”

:(

////

Cas makes Dean want to stay, a feeling that unsettles him precisely because of how powerful it is. Perhaps, it stirs up frustration because it's something he can't seem to control, even after all this time.

This is a frustration that Dean largely directs at himself, but I think it occasionally spills over into his interactions with Cas because of the vulnerability Cas represents. (Note: All this isn't even factoring in Cas's well-meaning attempts to shield Dean, which winds up making Dean feel shut out.)

///

And of course... all hail 2x20.

John instilled hero virtues in Dean by teaching him that sacrifice and duty were part of being a hero/family caretaker, even at the cost of his own happiness. This mindset is clear in Dean’s painful reflection, where he questions why he has to carry the burden of saving others while his own life and the lives of his loved ones are sacrificed:

DEAN (to John): "Course I know what you'd say. Your happiness for all those people's lives, no contest. Right?" But why? Why is it my job to save these people? Why do I have to be some kind of hero? (begins to cry while talking) What about us, huh? What, Mom's not supposed to live her life, Sammy's not supposed to get married?  Why do we have to sacrifice everything, Dad? (pause) It's... (Dean's lips tremble. Silence. We hear the sky rumbling. Tears begins to falls on DEAN's cheek.)

[trconlyme]

SPOILERS AND DISCUSSION

The thing that really pisses me off in RotE, Fitz's books is the fact that I completely understand why Fitz made the choices he made. And a lot of those choices were made based on his own experiences. But all other characters rebuke him, seemingly forgetting the reasons or not telling the whole truth. Examples:

- Molly told Nettles that Fitz was her father but forgot to reveal she had fled Buckkeep without telling him she was pregnant. Burrich knew or suspected she was but never told Fitz either. Molly told her the truth badly enough that Nettles thought Fitz was a deadbeat that abandoned her pregnant mother. And literally, NOBODY rebuked Molly for fleeing without ever giving Fitz the chance to be a father.

- Chade rebukes Fitz for not bringing Nettles to court and teaching her the Skill, but forgets all the trauma Fitz had to endure for being a bastard at court. And how horrible his instruction in the skill was for him

- Chade also rebukes Fitz for being addicted to elfbark, but HE was the one that presented it to him in the first place and made him addicted. He just forgot about it, never apologized, and treated Fitz addiction as an easy thing to overcome

- Ketriken keeps talking about duty and sacrifice to the people, but she forgets that the royal family has power. The sacrifice is proportional to the decision power the royals have, both in the SIX Dutchies and the Mountain Kingdom. Fitz has only been used, and abused by that Family. He never had the chance to have real power, and he did not want his daughter to face this treatment.

- Verity literally VIOLATED Fitz body, and never made him anything more than the bastard. Fitz literally sold his body for Nettles' happiness and uncomplicated life.

Fitz was hit in the head, drowned, revived by a dog, suffered seizures and weakness, was poisoned , mentally violated, driven to suicide, permanently damaged by the skillmaster, then was sent to war, made to kill forged people in several ways, then was tortured, killed, made into a mental parasite inside a wolf, brought back to a cadaver, forced to follow a skill command against his deepest desires, shot in the back and almoat died again, then he saw his family being "stolen" from him, in desperation he gave up part of this soul, his body was confiscated and used in ways he never consented to.

AND CHADE STILL HAD THE COURAGE TO DISPARAGE FITZ FOR NOT TRUSTING PEOPLE

Sure, Fitz does wallow in self pity from time to time and did make some stupid decisions in his life: he killed the coterie in rage in plain sight and did feed his memories to the stone without understanding the full effect that would have. But everything could have been avoided if Chade had just poisoned Regal when Fitz suggested it.

So yeah, if I were Fitzchivalry I would have been a lot more bitter and a lot more resentful. And I would have said waaayyy more unkind things and confronted the other characters a lot more.

" Did you enjoy your uncomplicated and happy childhood, Nettles? Good, because I sold myself to make sure you had for as long as I could. And I did not abandon your mother. She just did not see fit to tell me about you, and neither did your perfect papa Burrich. So don't come at me saying you don't NEED me. I know you don't, you never had the chance to need me, I was never given the chance to be needed by you. And I wont force you to be my daughter. I have a son who chose me as his father, and this is enough for me. "

I think Fitz should have sais something like this when Nettles told him she did not need him at the end of Fool's Fate

[chasingbutterfliesintoeternity]

A very self indulgent, all the tropes, PJO/EPIC crossover/time travel fix-it plot

(Ithaca Saga spoilers ahead)

So I have another crossover idea (not the one I’m planning to write) that’s been living in my head, and it’s so self indulgent and ridiculous it was only ever meant for me. But post Ithaca Saga listening party, I want to write down my thoughts and share them for reasons mentioned in my previous post. I would also like to note that I have an unhealthy obsession with C-novels and this is part of the inspiration.

So this AU opens in the EPIC timeline with a very old Odysseus on his deathbed, thinking about his life and his deepest regrets: letting his crew die and never properly reconciling with Athena. And in true C-novel fashion, his regrets (and probably Athena’s) are enough let him be reborn and have a second chance to fix his life. So Odysseus dies and the next thing he knows he opens his eyes and he’s young again, standing on his ship sailing out of Troy and Eurylochus is telling him that they’re running out of supplies.

Meanwhile in the PJO timeline, Percy and Luke/Kronos are facing off in the battle for Olympus and as Luke decides to sacrifice himself Kronos lashes out one last by cursing Percy and throwing him backwards in time. Olympus is saved but Percy is missing and Poseidon isn’t happy with that result and finds a way to follow Percy through time. So now we’ve got a reincarnater meets transmigrater situation going on.

Back in the EPIC timeline, despite all his attempts to avoid it, Odysseus still has to resort to going to the cyclops island to find food. But now Odysseus is more careful and tricks Polyphemus into breaking guest right immediately before taking him out using archery or something. Unfortunately Polyphemus still finds their identity before he dies because some crew members start a war chant or something. Fortunately, no crew members die and Poseidon is a little distracted from sending more revenge than a storm because he senses forces intruding on his domain (Percy and PJO!Poseidon).

Anyways Percy gets yeeted onto the cyclops island after being flung through time and runs into Odysseus as he’s packing up supplies in the cave. Odysseus is immediately suspicious because Percy looks a lot like Poseidon and Odysseus is like 90% sure this is a mortal disguise and he’s being tested. Percy is also very on guard because he can sense that Odysseus doesn’t like him and tries not to reveal anything about himself aside from being lost and stranded, which doesn’t help this misunderstanding. Neither does the storm that follows them as they leave the island. Then Athena shows up and makes some cryptic comments to Ody about killing one son and picking up another. She equally cryptically mentions she’s not going to be around for a bit because she senses a disturbance in time and needs to check that out but treat the kid well and you’ll probably be fine.

Where’s PJO!Poseidon? Well unluckily for him he’s landed on the wrong side of the world. Luckily for Percy and Odysseus this means that EPIC!Poseidon is to busy heading that way to check out the larger domain intrusion to bother them and Percy calms the storm pretty easily. No mortal can pass Poseidon’s storm? Sure. But a demigod son of Poseidon is a loophole. By this point EPIC!Poseidon and Athena are both trying to track down PJO!Poseidon, but he keeps losing them. Not intentionally, he actually doesn’t know he’s being tracked and just haphazardly transporting from place to place because he a bit disoriented and has his powers dampened from travelling through time.

Eventually EPIC!Poseidon decides to check on that pesky mortal who killed his son… and what do you mean he’s reached his homeland? So he goes spawn camps outside Ithaca, but when Odysseus and his fleet pulls up, his attention is drawn towards Percy, the second intrusion into his domain. Which leads to this encounter

“There you are! Of course you’re with the coward”

“Hey! leave my son alone!”

“Why are there two of you!?”

That last one is Athena, who’s finally tracked down the disturbance in the force.

So they’re all doing the Spider-Man meme right outside of Ithaca.

Anyways PJO!Poseidon convinces his past self that having a grudge against Odysseus isn’t worth it. Odysseus, who has already lived through this is probably darkly amused. But also very bemused at how easily he managed to get everyone home. Athena figures out how to get the PJO timeline seaweed brains home and everyone lives happily ever after.

[yuurivoice]

might be reading too much into it, but we the audience obviously still don't know what auron has experienced by the time lost and found happens.

auron said that he'd started realizing recently that everything good that's happened to him hasn't been accidental, does that mean that at that point, he has reason to believe that him and rook was something predestined and orchestrated? even if he doesn't have the full knowledge to know all the info about withered finn and such.

or was he just saying he has to take matters into his own hands more generally?

He is saying that he can accept and pursue good things for himself, on purpose, rather than occasionally having moments of goodness that he otherwise hadn't been seeking or feeling deserving of.

I think that's the biggest thing to take out of it. He now feels that he is worth experiencing goodness, and is willing to take measures to take it for himself. But because he's...well, not exactly well adjusted or socialized, he opted to play god and put these two people together.

So, much less "things are happening on purpose to me!!!!!" and more like "I've sacrificed my opportunities for goodness on purpose, but have found that it is okay to pursue goodness for myself, with intent".

That, paired with Auron's lack of faith vs Charlie's faith, is probably the focal point.

There have been a lot of fun teasers up to this point, but most all of them are just that, teasers. I do not work backwards. The things to expect and anticipate are given to you in the content and I wouldn't look too hard at things outside of it because 9/10 times you're going to wander off in the wrong direction. (Bones not withstanding, I wanted to...throw a bone...to people who had been super locked in to the broader YV content situation. That and he's too hot not to share.)

Typically I play my cards closer to the chest, but with how long everything has taken I have felt pressure to share ahead of time (plus we've had big events deserving of big reveals), so I think that has contributed to some of the stretching.

There's something brewing, there's pieces of what's to come, but I don't think there's enough of anything to really grasp something as specific as that at this point.

[friday-answers]

the thing about me that i will say though, is that... i've never really thought about my pronouns, nor my gender really, i've just went with what i was referred to as i grew up because it never felt wrong at all, and it still doesn't.

but, with creating universe friday and being this anonymous... blob who could be anyone, look like anyone, sound like anyone, being referred to as the 'creator' and with they/them pronouns...

made me realise in a really weird way that i kinda fuck with that. but not entirely they/them pronouns on me, myself (at least not in a way i would push to be referred to as) but when people don't know me.

when people hear my name or a description of me and automatically call me by a 'gendered' pronoun i kind of hate it. not repulsed by it, but in a way that i almost want to be truly anonymous to anyone before they've met me. or even until i'm a lil closer to them. like i wanna be referred to as 'they' in the way you say, "who are they?" when you ask about someone who's gender you know nothing of. anonymity.

idk. there's just something that just feels so right about not being known and being allowed to pretty much have no gender or appearance. i fear this blog is teaching me more about myself than i ever would've expected Erm...

but also i feel like this happens every time the weather gets colder. does seasonal gender exist??? it does now. i just decided.

[dollypopup]

hm. idk, maybe the reason Luke Newton isn't announcing new projects or posting any Bridgerton content is because some of you demons treated him like hot trash instead of a creative that you wanted more work from and he decided fuck it, this isn't worth the stress. you know, like a lot of creatives who get mistreated do?

like this is a man who went from couch surfing in a friend's house and bartending to make ends meet, deciding that the Bridgerton audition was the last one he'd do before he quit, to suddenly being recognized on the street because that last audition propelled him to star in a global show where fans who have zero media comprehension blamed him for his character's actions and literally stalked him at any hotel he happens to stay at. he went from being a dude doing musical theatre and shopping at thrift stores and recording random songs with friends and posting silly memes on Twitter to being harassed on his only social media page and his friends insulted and his partners bullied by his supposed 'fans' and anything he posts being so microanalyzed that he can't do a damn thing without someone coming out the woodwork screaming about how he's the WORST and won't he think of the FANS!?

like damn he can't have a girlfriend without being harassed, he can't travel without being harassed, he can't like or not like social media posts without being harassed, he can't post a fucking MEME without being harassed, he can't take a vacation or cut his hair or hold someone's hand or just live his life without being blamed for some bullshit or another. but yeah, okay, 'when will Luke Newton come back?' as if it isn't your fault he's AWOL now

[pagesofkenna]

I'm fascinated by the fact that the Burrow's End fam are cultists

like they walked into stoat bastion and immediately clocked the leaders as Evil and Fascist based solely on (*checks notes*) the fact that they were the authority figures. and they dedicated themselves to overthrowing the First Stoats, and murdered them, and immediately set about claiming authority over the bastion using their skills as literal cult leaders

it's haha funny but also remember how Thorn and Viola literally run a cult?? it's not a mercenary group or a small princedom it's a cult. it's called that in and out of character. Thorn is a charismatic cult leader with mystical powers. they murdered the First Stoats and Viola immediately put the pope hat on and it was haha funny but also she did it because she wants the bastion to be their new cult

it's buckwild

Tula said this episode to Bennet 'anyone who strives for power is suspicious' and her sister was RIGHT there. Tula actively assisted in Viola's desire to infiltrate Population Support to turn it into Population Control. it's haha funny but you did that in character. oh are the First Stoats keeping information secret and trying to nudge their population into war with the humans?? what was Thorn doing. what is Ava doing, actually. once you put that stoat pope hat on what are you going to do that's different from what stoat pope did??

there's a world in which Aabria leaned more into the family's own fascism, pitting the reality of their actions and mentality up against the First Stoats. it feels like she wanted to but didn't because she wanted to preserve the cooperative vibe of the season but I am absolutely on her side in this adventuring party: at the first sign of opposition the family jumps to lethal solutions and bids for power. Lila and Jaysohn are children and their instinct was to establish themselves as supreme powers within their age group. again, haha funny, kids being kids, but their favorite auntie and uncle are cult leaders. Thorn's talked about giving them places of power in his cult. I can't get over it

like I can't get over this lmao!! the players kept trying to contradict Aabria and say no no, the First Stoats are evil, clearly we had to kill them—and yes, this is how the game works, and the crew made all these complicated battlemaps so yes you did have to use them. but you didn't have to be cultists!! you didn't have to be so clearly trying to take the First Stoats' places for yourselves! like Aabria said you could have talked!! so many times!!

[theredconqueror]

He enjoys these tender gestures and simply lets Lucanis explore, without worry for what he might do, how he might overwhelm. He'd taken for granted first love, foolish enough to think it would last forever, rather than savouring it like the rare wine that it was. Now, he can simply observe, and commit to memory these moments of being wanted, so that one day they will not simply be blurs. Lucanis guide his fingers and tells him that he has done worse than these desires, but that doesn't feel entirely true to him. He only smiles softly as his hand remains limp in the other's grip, the gentle kisses melting away like the butter the trained thoughts of how there is nothing worse than what he is doing. Lucanis isn't even a mage, nor is he from Tevinter, and most shameful of all, he is a man. Only mortal, he imagines would be tacked on to that moonlight sharp bible of rules that his father had ingrained in him. "Yes, I want you here," he whispers, reconfirms, because if he cannot be happy at the end of days, then he shall never be happy. He has already betrayed all of his gods, awaiting the succession of divine punishments. All he wants for tonight is for Lucanis to want him. Even if it takes the penetration of the sanctity of his personal chamber. As if this room means anything to him; this borrowed space from a god who is waiting to stab him in the back. What reservations is there about the assassin staying? That he might do the same? Or that someone might know? On that count, it was already too late, too. It'll be the gossip of the week, if it has not been already, considering his companion's not altogether surprised reaction at catching them. Lucanis, lead dance partner for the moment, brings him to the couch to sit. He lets himself be swept away by touch and the other's instinct, hesitant to press forward, to dare more. At the other's words, puzzlement crosses his face, which only doubles as the other produces the covered silk. At the reveal, he's stunned, this premeditated gesture far more surprising than if somehow the assassin had managed to conjure the object from thin air in that moment. "When did you..." He breathes out in disbelief as his gaze searches the other's, wondering how long Lucanis had been carrying it. He holds it with such a fragile grip, despite the fact that it is metal and has little chance of shattering. Had he always intended to give it to him tonight? Or had he been waiting for the right moment? Had Lucanis been waiting for him to say that he wanted him...? There's a flash of a trembling, tender smile before his arms move to wrap around the other's body, holding him in a tight embrace which has no intent other than the truest gratitude, touched by the act, to be thought of at all. No will is needed for the way his heart beats all on its own, made living by this act of kindness. "Thank you Lucanis, I love it..." His body swells with overwhelming joy, now also overcome with that sensation of too much. Does Lucanis mean to kill him with kindness? It is the only thing he can imagine. He pulls back, just barely, breathing shakily. "Please," he pleads, as if one made weak and mortal, "let me kiss you just one last time tonight..." He cannot bear the dishonour of not showing him how much this means to him.

Gratitude tints his features, all sunset soft and gentle; his heartbeat drowns out even the sea's rhythm, erratic and ecstatic as he noses at Valrys' neck, able to recognize the earthen notes. Take comfort in the tender consolations as expectations shift into affirmations. Another inhale; Treviso at the cusp of autumn, those early morning hour when the sun's barely up and the sea-air dampness whispers wraps around the senses as winter's prelude.

"You've given me nothing but the opposite impression. Thank you." Rasped words brushed against the throat, gratitude encompassing a number of worries, Lucanis eases back to take in the appearance of his colleague in full, one hand already lifting to envelop the other's. "Oh, do not look at me so. You've done worse than give into your desires, and yet I'm still here, aren't I?" To further the point, he guides the fingers to his throat where a knife caressed the carotid while the veins shuddered, frozen like a puppet's string waiting for command. And further still, Lucanis drags those svelte fingers up to once more kiss the pads of each, gazing up at Valrys with an expression open as any book, contents spread like entrails after butchery. "Still... Are you sure you'd have me sleep here?"

He hums as the mage's hands remain open while pressing at his clothes, a behavior Lucanis could decipher as concerned. While Valrys can weave words into complex spells, half-truths circled around vowels in an ouroboros of hidden meanings, his body language oft betrayed him. Not in any significant way, and not in any way decipherable unless the observer knew him enough — and had a demon to carve through memories like a sculptor giving shape to a featureless slab, deceivingly brittle. Offended? Spite chuffs. [ Would you kneel, if it meant no offense? ]

Touch intent, maneuvering them silently in lieu of an immediate response, the habitual spot on the couch is eventually claimed as he sits, fingers finally withdrawing — a sojourn with promise of return. "I have something for you," he says after a thoughtful pause, pulling a small object wrapped in a shred of purple silk. Once unfolded, Valrys will discover a small dragon brooch, simple and clean in design with tiny sapphires to accent the eyes.