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piratefishmama · 2 years ago

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Forgiven Not Forgotten | Part 1

Steve wished he could say that that particular moment in his life hadn’t irreparably changed it, worsened it, he wished he could say that who he was, the whole of him, that part of him he now buried deep, deep down, that burying it didn’t cause problems.

Of course, it did. The chain reaction of it caused more problems than anyone could have ever expected. He wasn’t the same after that day.

Nothing in his life was the same after that day.

His mother tried, gods she tried so very hard to get him to open up, to try and get him to talk about what had upset him so much but… it was wrong. It was gross. He was gross.

His parents had always been clean and tidy, always priding themselves on their appearances, he couldn’t be seen being gross why… why did they let him just… keep doing that? Why would they let him keep making them look bad?

Why would they let him make himself look bad?

They should have known it was wrong, right? They should have known it was bad! They should have… they should have told him, but… they didn’t. They set him up for heartbreak, for humiliation, for pain, and he hated them for it.

He pulled away from his parents. And they, baffled as to why, were unable to keep him from withdrawing, were left with a mere shell of the bright little star-kissed boy they’d brought into the world.

Talking to him became difficult, he didn’t talk about his crushes anymore, he didn’t talk about anything to them anymore.

His new friends, Tommy, and Carol, they were… an interesting pair, but… their little boy had friends, so the Harringtons tolerated them, even when they convinced their little boy to go after the sports teams, to sign up for basketball try-outs and swim team, even when Steve came home with a spot on both, seemingly proud of himself.

Lynda Harrington could see that something was missing. A bright spark, an ember that’d been slowly building, that’d been slowly growing larger and larger as he grew until she’d hoped it’d become a sun had been snuffed out by things unknown. Her baby wouldn’t speak to her like he used to, wouldn’t wear his cute little chef apron, or do ‘girl stuff’ like play dress up or help his mama with her makeup anymore, it was like, overnight, their son had been replaced with an imposter.

John Harrington hated it the most though. Struggled to keep himself in the house, made excuses to stay at work, unable to handle the fact that he could see his son reshaping himself into something he’d never been before, and he couldn’t do anything to stop it.

He hated the sports teams, although the men who worked for him often congratulated him on having a star athlete for a son. He hated the people that came with them, the people his son claimed to be friends with, they were awful children, who grew into awful teenagers, the majority bullies, those bad influences gradually influencing their son into something his friends dubbed King Steve. A boy he and his wife no longer recognised.

A boy who threw parties at the house while his parents weren’t home, forced away on business trips they couldn’t get out of and couldn’t take him along with thanks to school, allowing them to come home to precious possessions smashed, beer cans littered around the house, around the pool, the stank of marijuana clinging to their soft furnishings.

His own wife now questioned their marriage, his faithfulness, all because she’d found a bra in their bedroom that didn’t belong to her, spoke to her friends about it before confronting him. All John could assume was that one of Steve��s little parties had included teens getting up to no good in the bedrooms.

Safe to say the entire closet of bed linens had been burned, new were bought immediately, and cameras were installed around the house. Lynda still didn’t trust him.

And then work picked up. John Harrington’s firm went global, their money increased tenfold, but so did the workload, and with Lynda no longer trusting him, she was always by his side, watching, waiting for a sign, any kind of hint, a scrap of infidelity to prove it to herself… John hadn’t ever so much as looked at another woman, how could he? He’d married his high school sweetheart and even through her paranoia, she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

It meant Steve was alone more often as he grew older, but… John couldn’t spend too much time around his son anymore anyway, he wished he could. He wished he could sit his boy down, wished he could wrap him in his arms and tell him it was going to be okay, that whatever it was that’d done that damage so long ago, they’d face it, they’d deal with it, and they’d put it behind them.

It was too late. His son had grown up. His bright star of a little boy was gone and neither he, nor his wife, could get an answer out of him as to why. John never claimed that to be good parenting either, avoiding the problem, he knew he was taking the cowards way out, it ate at him more than he ever allowed show. That didn’t help their home life.

And then a young woman disappeared from their pool. The cameras around the house picked up nothing, the image flickering with static, showing the poor girl there one moment, then gone the next, no sign of where she’d gone between the brief flicker of static. The government had shown up and confiscated the tapes before the police could come by. Not that the police knew about the cameras.

They weren’t exactly obvious.

And Steve, for the first time in his life, came home with a girlfriend. And a face full of injuries. But a girlfriend! Something steady, something stable, with someone from a respectable family, someone with brains, someone with a good head on her shoulders, something that spontaneously combusted about a year later.

Disappointing, but the face full of injuries was more important. Even if Steve wouldn’t tell them about it.

Steve dropped the swimming team.

Then came Steve’s spectacularly bad grades in school leaving him graduating but going nowhere fast in terms of college. Then came John Harrington putting his foot down, demanding Steve get a job, he’d even grabbed a ‘We’re Hiring’ flyer from the new mall after he and Lynda had gone shopping the day before.

Then the mall fire. More bruises, this time scars. The nightmares that woke their son up, and them, in the middle of the night with his screaming that he’d never explain. This time eye doctors, otolaryngologists, their boy suffered a ruptured eardrum the doctor claimed would likely get worse with time, that he’d eventually need hearing aids, another concussion, he couldn’t get his son to explain where the blunt force trauma had come from, but John swore never to force his son into work again.

Steve still grabbed a new job with his new friend Robin at the local Family Video store. A glimmer of that ember they’d thought had died out, peeking through the cracks in the walls Steve had long since put up.

The Harringtons had been proud, for the first time in so very long, they’d been proud. Thrilled. They’d spent much longer in Hawkins after that, attempting to build bridges that’d long since been destroyed, before they’d had to go again, “There’s utter chaos in the London branch, Steve, we’ll send you money for groceries every week and don’t forget to water the plants! We should be home by the end of the month okay?”

Then came the serial killer.

The Earthquake.

Then, the phone call.

“Mom, just… just stay out of Hawkins okay, just… just stay on your business trip with dad, alright?” The line was crackly at best, Lynda on the phone from their hotel room in London, John close by, listening as best he could.

“Sweetheart we saw on the news, that girl, the Earthqua—”

“Yeah, yeah mom, it’s… it’s bad here, look just stay there. Wherever you are right now, just stay there until I call again, alright? Just don’t come home. I’ll stay in touch as best I can okay? Just sta—”

“Steve? Steve?! Steve!!” Lynda pulled the phone away from her ear, the steady beep of a call disconnected going off from the speaker. Her panicked gaze turning from the handset to her husband “John!”

“Give me the phone, I’m getting us home.”

He wasn’t able to get them home. Not all the way. Hawkins was locked down solid. They got as close as six miles away, holed up in a motel close enough to see the plumes of black, billowing up into the skies above filled with angry red lights flashing intermittently like lightning, as if a volcano had erupted and the pyroclastic flow just wouldn’t stop, helicopters circled the town daily but reports never made it out of the little town.

They heard nothing for weeks, for months. There was no news on Hawkins anywhere on the channels, it was as though the place had vanished from the face of the Earth despite constant surveillance, but they watched from a hill high enough to see the town in the distance.

They watched it every single day, a radio on, the TV on, waiting for news, waiting for something, anything. Months turned into a year, in that time the Harringtons moved their things from the motel into a town a few miles further south, renting a modest two bed there, watching the smoke, waiting for a call, for anything to say their son was okay.

Anything to say that he was alive.

A year turned into two. Arguments led to tears, led to apologies, led to promises that if, if he were alive in there, they’d try harder, they’d figure it out. They’d get their little boy back, the one that loved freely, openly, the one that talked to them, the one that played house, played dress up with his mom, who cooked with his little apron on, they’d get their little boy back no matter what it took.

That they wouldnt stop hoping until news came to tell them he was gone.

And then just like that. The smoke disappeared. Swallowed up, gone. The skies slowly cleared above a dead Hawkins, revealing shrivelled trees, a horrorscape of a place that looked as though it'd been left to rot decades ago.

Lynda’s incredibly expensive mobile phone rang.

“…Mom?”

Part 3

#PirateWrites #ForgivenNotForgottenFiclet #Steddie #Post!S5 #Mentions of Kas Eddie #Hurt/Comfort #Miscommunication

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nevadancitizen · 8 months ago

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-> HURTING, LONGING, LOVING – DANCING TO DISCO MUSIC

synopsis: you wake up and have no memory of simon. you can only hope to find him among your fractured memories and the scattered lights of a disco ball.

word count: 2.3k

characters: simon "ghost" riley, amnesiac! gn! reader

trigger warnings: transient global (aka temporary) amnesia, mentions of canon-typical violence/interrogation

notes: heavily inspired by disco elysium and part one of @roosterr 's amnesia series. go give it a read if you haven't already (＊๑˘◡˘)

Nothing surrounds you. Only warm, primordial blackness – the pond you learn about in Biology 101, the one where everything and everyone comes from. You don’t know this, of course, because you’re curled up in it, your mind fermenting in it. You’re no larger than a grain of yeast. You don’t have to do anything anymore. Ever. Never, ever.

But you’re growing. Gram upon gram of yeast, slowly morphing into meat. Muscles and bones and organs and a beating pig heart, decaying as soon as they grow. Soon you’ll need to do things. There’s a faint tickle of an idea. Soldiers. Battlefields. IEDs and tanks. You don’t know what to do with this information.

Somewhere within the idea – a sensation! Pain. Arcing, shooting pain, lightning through every new nerve in your new body. The limbed and headed machine of pain and barely-dignified suffering is firing up again. It wants to walk the streets of Manchester. Hurting. Longing. Loving. Dancing to disco music.

It wants someone. You want someone. A blurred-out face, someone you’re kneeling at the feet at. A ghost of a man. So lost he doesn’t even know what his face looks like.

“I swore I wouldn’t let you go,” your barely-formed mouth mumbles. Your teeth are hot, melted-together plastic and your tongue is jet-fuel-fired rebar.

Look up. No. You were just talking to yourself. That’s all you ever do. Even in this primordial pool. And the act is wearing thin, the spots of the disco ball fade around you…

The warm blackness is instantly replaced with a cold, artificial light. You bring your hand up to block it – since when have you had these? Gangly things with a red wire further down in… your elbow. That’s not a wire – that’s a tube. Of blood? Your blood. You have blood.

You remember now. You were born with hands and elbows, knees, feet, organs and fat and a copious amount of blood. A collarbone you’ve broken more than once. A body that was molded in the crucible of battle.

And holy shit does that body hurt. That hindbrain wasn’t exaggerating when it said that you are a being of suffering.

A dull throbbing is behind your eyes as they rove around the room. They land on a button neatly labeled Call Nurse. You press it and wait.

Everything after that is a blur. Nurses, doctors, “Follow my finger with your eyes, but don’t move your head,” poking and prodding with various instruments, “Tilt your head back so I can feel your neck,” blue latex gloves, “How much do you remember?”, bright lights in your eyes.

One nurse checks the dressings on your forehead. It’s just above your temple. His hands are rubbery and unfeeling as he re-dresses it. A trickle of cold liquid dribbling down from an alcohol swab. Bandages press against your skin. “What’s your name and date of birth?”, “Can you name the members of the task force you’re a part of?”

A man cuts through the blur as he comes thundering through the door. A balaclava with a skull pattern. Three men are behind him, hanging in the doorframe, out of the way. But the man moves quickly towards you, standing on the edge of the crowd of medical professionals, pacing back and forth, eyes on you, like how a sheepdog circles its sheep. Longing, waiting. Held back by an invisible leash of respect.

After a while, most of the personnel disperse, leaving you with a transient global amnesia diagnosis, a nurse, and the men. But even then, they leave after casting a glance at the sheepdog.

He moves closer, then stares at you for a while. He’s expecting something. His brown eyes are like sodium lights. A small trickle of streets and the sky. In your mind, you know he’s the place to be. You’re still alive while he’s around.

Yeah. He’s groovy. You want to disco with him. He is disco. But somewhere, a deep unaccessed area of your mind is saying, “You don’t want to disco like this. Not really. Not in the deepest part of your soul, where blond eyelashes only make you sad.”

Wait – come on, what are you talking about? Sad blond eyelashes? Blond eyelashes are fun!

“Why do I hurt all of a sudden?”

“Hey, it’s alright, darl.” He kneels by your bed and takes your hand in both of his. They’re warm, rough, calloused in places you thought couldn’t be calloused. “It’s me, it’s Simon.”

“What?” You pull your hand away from his. “I don’t know a Simon.”

Simon scoffs, but it’s more of an exhale of disbelief. “Don’t you remember me?”

“No.” You narrow your eyes. “Should I?”

Simon crumbles before you. His sodium streetlight eyes go out with an explosion of guilt – the bulbs pop with a fizzy sound. He looks like he should be groveling at the feet of a feudal lord, providing excessive evidence of his crimes, or throwing a cat-of-nine-tails over his shoulder and ripping the flesh from his own back. Whatever made him this way – you can be damn sure it was your fault. Those three simple words, instead of “I love you,” are “No. Should I?”

“It’s me.” Simon’s voice cracks as he speaks. Tears flood his waterline. He takes off his mask, revealing his pale face and dyed-blond hair. “It’s your Simon.”

“Simon,” you say softly. You look at him and hurt. A hole in your still-beating pig heart. Blood spills out from where the bullet went in.

“No. Nothing.” You look down at his hand. It’s palm-up, splayed out where you let go of it. It curls up into a fist, then Simon pulls it into his lap.

He says nothing. Just stares at you like you’re familiar yet somehow unknown.

You don’t know what to say. You just can’t conjure up any thoughts as you stare back. The morphine can’t be the cause of your dumbness. And it certainly isn’t the new modafinil that was just introduced to your system.

You search his eyes and feel, above all things, lost. Lonely in a hospital full of people.

Simon pulls away. His breathing is heavy and labored. A single tear slips down his scarred cheek. He doesn’t look like he’s one to cry. The tear leaves a trail of wet that looks like a new scar.

He tugs his balaclava back on and shuffles out, casting one last longing glance over his shoulder before closing the door behind him with a soft click.

That’s where it is. He is disco. He’s stumbling through the streets of Manchester. Hurting. Longing. Loving. Dancing to disco music.

You’re stuck in the hospital for a week for physical therapy and observation. Simon visits intermittently. He brings things to jog your memory – men that are part of Task Force 141, small snow globes from where you and he have apparently been deployed. Some of them work. But none of them bring back any memory of your apparent relationship with Simon – your boyfriend.

Today he comes in with a small device. It’s not a phone, but resembles it. A small wire comes from the amp and ends in a small circle of plastic.

You point at it. “What’s that?”

“It’s a contact microphone.” Simon settles in the chair that’s set up by your bed. He points at the blocky part of it. “This part holds the recording. You can play it back if needed.”

“Are you going to play it back?” You ask.

“No,” Simon says. “This one is blank.”

You take it from Simon’s hand and turn it over, looking at it. Examining. “Then why are you showing me this?”

“You are…” Simon sighs, trying to find the words. “You were a profoundly talented interrogator. You used contact microphones to record the interrogation, the confessions, the works. There’s a specified interrogation chamber underground. Contact microphones pick up the noise better down there.”

You continue looking it over. Fiddling with the wire. Running your thumb over the mesh of the microphone.

“Anything?” Simon says.

You close your eyes and think. Contact microphone… violence, blood. There’s a welding torch in there somewhere. The smell of bubbling flesh and burning hair. Cauterization without anesthesia. It was that way on purpose.

You open your eyes and look at Simon. “Interrogation.”

“Obviously.” Simon huffs out a laugh. It sounds forced. “I told you that.”

“Yes.” You sigh, looking down at the contact microphone. You try to think more. Contact… physical contact. Your fist making contact. Something hard. Solid bone breaking under your hands.

But also… something soft. Something that smells good. Smells homey. A black hoodie with some cheesy skull pattern on it. Actually, a closet full of black and grey clothes. A monotone voice to match a monotone closet.

The clothes smell faintly of cigarettes. A carton that’s mostly empty. They taste better than regular cigarettes – they’re some European brand.

“Do…” You look up at Simon. “Do you smoke?”

“Why?” Simon asks. “Do I smell like cigs?”

“No. Just…”

You close your eyes and try to remember more. The carton is a brown-orange color. The back is plastered with warnings about nicotine being an addictive chemical. No filters. A smooth, walnut-esque finish.

“Revaality,” you finally say and look up at Simon.

“Yes! Yes.” Simon takes your hand instinctively, excitedly. He smiles. Like crying, it doesn’t really fit him, but you’re glad he’s smiling anyway. “That’s the brand I smoke. I smoke Revaality.”

He takes your face in his hand and guides you to look at him. His sodium light eyes are bright once again. “Anything else? Lovie, please…”

You cringe away from his touch. Again, Simon is punched in the fucking face when he remembers that you don’t know him. Not like that.

Simon pulls his hands away. “Shit. I…”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly. “I know.”

I know you know a different version of me. The thought lingers, loud and unsaid. Simon, you’re a man with a lot of past, but little present, and almost no future. I’m sorry we only live in your memories, because I don’t even have those.

“I’m trying.” You look down at the contact microphone. “Believe me, I’m trying.”

“I believe you,” Simon says. “It’s just… it’s hard.”

Silence for a while. The artificial lights above you buzz and cast harsh shadows on Simon’s face. He looks… tired.

“I still love you,” he says quietly. Almost a whisper. “I… you’re the best thing to ever happen to me.”

He rests a hand on the railing of your hospital bed. “I’m not the best. I drink. I smoke. I have a laundry list of mental issues and types of trauma. So much it’s not even funny.”

“But you…” he sighs. “You fell in love with me anyway.”

You look up at him. He’s crying again. A pang of empathy in your heart. You don’t know why, but you don’t want to see him cry. The tears that cut through the dirt on his face are unbefitting.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice is a mirror of Simon’s. Soft and wavering. “I want to remember. I don’t even know what happened to me. The doctors always dance around it when I ask.”

Simon bunches the end of his sleeve up in his hand and wipes away his tears. “You were a fucking idiot. That’s what happened.”

You scoff. “Excuse me?”

“Not in a bad way.” Simon lets go of his sleeve and rests his hand on the railing of your bed again. “You love too much and too hard. You saved me.”

“It… the building…” He squeezes his eyes shut, forcing his waterline to clear of tears. “The building was coming down. We thought we were out of danger close. But there was a piece of rebar that…”

Simon looks down at his lap. He’s ashamed. “It was supposed to hit me. I was supposed to die. I’m used to it. I’m used to close calls and blood transfusions.”

“But I’m not used to…” He glances up at you through his eyelashes. His long, blond eyelashes. “People I care about being hurt. Or people caring about me in general.”

“Simon.” You reach out and lay your hand over his where it rests on the railing. He holds his breath like he’s afraid.

A pause. You want to be sure of your words before you speak.

“I’m going to try my damndest to remember,” you say. “Even if I don’t remember everything, I – I want to try to learn to care about you again. Because, based on our limited interactions, I know you’re a good man. Even if you drink and even if you smoke and even if you have a laundry list of mental issues and an assortment of trauma.”

Simon slowly brings his other hand and rests it on top of yours. His callouses brush against your knuckles. Abrasive yet comforting in a way you barely remember.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “Really, truly. Thank you.”

And, in this moment, Simon finally has some sense of control in an ever-turbulent world. The world that tried to take his one and only love. The world that has taken his one and only love and is only now feeding him droplets of what he knows – what he once knew. He must exercise this control carefully, lest he lose you again.

In the sky, there are no dogfights and no silverplate bombers. Only stars and the rabbit curled up on the moon and a singular winking comet. God is in Heaven. Everything is normal on Earth.

Somewhere, the spots from a disco ball freckle the dance floor once again.

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justme315 · 2 months ago

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Caught 1/3

!Warning!

Fear, angst, pain, cursing, mention of drugs, g/t, graphic story of a crazy giant, mention of fatal vore, a mention of someone being suicidal, ¿gigantophobia?, trauma, bad response dough to fear

Next part:

------------------------

The world was not normal anymore. Everything started 15 years ago afer a yet another global pandemic. Some have passed away, some barely had any changes due to the illness but 1/14 of the population between 1 and 21 became really infected.

You see, it was not a typical disease. Sure, for some it was like a cold but those unfortunate young people who had the right genetic basis for the mutation of the disease were practically cursed. The mutation caused those sick people - depending on a person - either to shrink up to 3-4 inches or grow up to even 60 feet tall.

It took the doctors a few months to find medication to help control the sudden changes of size, but the illness was proven to be incurable. Medication could only help control the size changes slightly better but couldn't fully stop it.

Present time

In this crazy world there was only one thing that wasn't crazy.

"Hunter!" Nate yelled while chasing his best friend. The young boys were friends since they were 8 so now it was a decade of friendship. Their relationship was the only normal thing in the world: no lies, no envy just pure platonic love and..

"Give me back my phone, you psycho!"

Pranks.

"I'm gonna text her" Hunter laughed after unlocking his best friends phone "I'm finally gonna tell Evie that you have a crush on her!"

In a world full of the so called 'size shifters' (they could just call them weriedos in Nates opinion), so basically giants and tinies, having a friend like Hunter was a blessing. Well, at last Nate though that. Hunter didn't have too many friends becouse he wasn't very out going and could come off as cold sometimes but he was surely the sweetest, gentleman ever. Nate on the other hand was the most troublesome kid all middle and high school. He would always ruin something, say something rude to a teacher, skip classes, fail exams..

At last Hunter cared about him. And Nate cared about Hunter as well.

You could practically call them brothers at that point. 10 years of friendship? That sounds like 'forever' is ahead of them. Well.. it was.

This unfortunate day Nate has gotten a 'brilliant' idea: surprise (and scare) Hunter by coming out of his closet (no double meanings) as he returns home from soccer practice.

Everything was going well. Hunters mom bought the lie that Nate was supposed to wait for Hunter in his room and she left the house. Nate didn't have too much time before he heard Hunter opening the front door. He quickly jumped into the closet and closed the door, leaving just a tiny gap, so he could see what was happening on the outside.

The closet was dark, full of clothes and other stuff all around. Those things were nothing special: t-shirts, pants, caps, headphones, medication.. Wait, hold on.

Medication?

"Why does he have pills in there?" Nate though, grabbing the bottle. His mind raced with thoughts. It was too dark for him to figure out what kind of medicine was in the bottle. It was weried. Hunter wasn't sick. Well, at last Nate didn't know anything about that. He didn't have allergies, he didn't have asthma, never even needed pain killers...

"What if those are like drugs?" Nates heart skipped a beat. It would explain why Hunter wouldn't tell him. Maybe he was ashamed that he was an addict?

No, drugs didn't make any sense. Hunter wouldn't have done that. That's something pretty much impossible to happen.

"Maybe he is sick and doesn't wanna tell me because it's terminal"

Now Nate felt like he was going to puke. What if this was something serious? What if Hunter would-?

Just as he was about to create next 2000 scenarios, Hunter entered the room.

"Crap" Nate gasped "I forgot about the prank!"

He wasn't in the mood for pranks anymore. He was supposed to scare Hunter but..

As Hunter sat on his bed, he called Nate out.

"I can see you, dumbass, you know?"

Nate signed and then slowly opened the closets door and stepped out. His best friend didn't seem very surprised.

"You idio-" The boy began to speak, but stoped mid sentence as he saw what was in his friends hands. He got pale. He became completely paralyzed. He was..

Scared?

Nate didn't understand his expression. Surely, he couldn't have scared him. Hunter saw him. He wasn't as sly as normally. So why would he react this way?

He then looked carefully at his best friends expression. Hunters eyes flickered between Nates face and.. the bottle in his hand.

How could he have forgotten about that?

He looked down into his hand. Finally the light hit the white bottle with few simple blue words written on it.

Remedium Gigantismus.

"Heck of a weried name for a pill" Nate thought before he saw the smaller, English words.

A pill to help control morphing into a giant.

His eyes widden and he gasped.

Gigantismus. That means..

"A giant.." he mumbled under his breath. How was it possible he didn't realize earlier? He looked back at Hunter with wide, confused eyes.

Hunter stared at him looking almost terrified.

"Nate.." Hunters voice was a little shaky and he acted with a lot of caution "Let me-"

"Why the hell do you have those pills?" Nate spoke defensively. It felt surreal. Hunter never behaved like that. He never kept secrets. He most surely wouldn't be a fucking monster.

"Bro, I'm sorry, I should have told you sooner" the other boys brown eyes flickered with shame. He took a step into Nates direction but the shorter, blue-eyed one took a step back. Hunter was visibly shocked and hurt by that.

"What..? What the hell do you mean?" Nate still couldn't get that thought into his head. There had to be a different explanation. Hunter was not a freaking beast. He wasn't a man-eater. He wasn't one of those crazy giants that morph into their true size in the middle of a city to crush buildings, murder people and traumatize thoese who remain alive. Hunter wasn't like the one that did that to Nate.

"Nate, I really wanted to tell you. But after the accident in the gallery..." Right.

It all happened 4 years ago. Nate was in an art gallery with his so called girlfriend. She was his first crush. It was a great experience untill.. Unexpectedly one boy, barely older than them morphed into a giant. He crushed the building completely, walls fell down, floors broke into parts, the rooftop fell on top of many people, crushing them. The beast - the giant looked down at all those humans. He had an evil grin and the demonic stare that Nate still had nightmares of. The giant grabbed people like they were toys, bugs, pests even. He didn't hesitate to murder and eat all humans that he could reach. Hell, he even ate the girl that went out with Nate. Nate would forever remember those giant hands, the beasts stare, the blood flowing down his mouth and hands. Nate only survived because he was under a pile of fallen materials and wasn't visible to the monster. Even though he didn't die, he could still hear the delight in the beasts voice as he enjoyed the consumption of people, which made Nate feel dead inside. After the "accident", as everyone else refered to it, he became suicidal, had nightmares about giants almost every night but most importantly began to hate giants with all his heart. Hell, not only giants. All of those freaking weriedos that change their sizes. His therapist couldn't help him. Noone really could. The accident ruined him mentally and that could not be repaired. But Hunter was by his side after that terrifying, traumatizing experience. He was the only one who understood how much Nate hated thoese freaking monsterous giants and was the only one accepting the fact without telling him that "one situation doesn't define the whole species" or other shit people told him. They were murderers. Giants were murderers. Nothing more.

But now.. even Hunter wasn't on his side.

"Tell me it's not what I think it is" Nate almost begged at this point. He was so angry, so confused and so unbelievably terrified "Tell me you're not a monster!!"

Hunters eyes became glossy, his voice was shaky, he didn't want to lose his best friend "Nate, please.. I got infected 6 years ago. I didn't tell anyone but my parents and doctors. I wanted to.. I wanted to tell you but my parents told me it was a bad idea. And later the accident happened.. I didn't want you to hate me. I didn't want you to hear me" he tried to explain as he was slowly breaking down.

Nate felt his heart beat faster, his breath quickened, his hands trembled as he held the bottle firmly, his mind was filled with thoughts, he couldn't control the growing rage.

"Are you a fucking giant?!" Nate yelled at Hunter, visibly furious and panicked, somehow at the same time. He felt like he was going to puke. His head hurt. And his heart? It stung so freaking bad that he thought he was going to have a heart attack.

Hunter stood there, quiet for a secound before nodding. He looked ashamed. Hurt even. He knew he shouldn't have kept this a secret but let's be honest, if he told Nate would they continue being friends? Obviously no. Hunter just didn't want to lose him. He couldn't even bare the thought..

They both kept quiet for a few seconds, the first thing to break the silence was the sound of the bottle falling down onto the floor.

"How could you..?" The blue-eyed began to speak.

"Nate, please, it doesn't have to change anything-" Hunter spoke even though he didn't believe those words himself. His heart was pounding like crazy. He took two more steps into his best friends direction.

"Get away from me you monster!!" Nate snapped as he took a few steps back, visibly frighten by Hunter.

They have been friends for a freaking decade and now Nate was terrified of him.

Hunter broke down. Tears began to fall down his cheeks. He wasn't a monster.

"Please don't call me that" he whispered as he began to sob and cry louder. Just a secound later he ran off the room and out of the house leaving Nate all alone.

The boy collapsed onto the floor, sitting there stunned, shocked and scared. He couldn't understand the situation. It was unbelievable. How didn't he notice? Was Hunter faking their friendship? Would Hunter hurt him?

No, of course not. That was Hunter. His Hunter.

Nate stood back up and took a deep breath. He tried to regain his composure. His body was reacting before his mind was. He knew, deep down, that even if Hunter was a giant, he would never ever hurt him, but the trauma made him react on instinct, without thinking straight. As soon as Hunter was out of sight it was easy for Nate to feel calmer and regain his thoughts.

"How could I have been so cruel to call him a monster? I fucking made him cry" he thought as he stood up. When the fear began to fade away he realized what he had done. His behavior was unforgivable. Hunter was right about not telling him - Nate didn't take that information well. Hunter had every right to keep this to himself for the sake of their friendship.

"I have to fix this" Nate though as he realised he wouldn't loose his best friend like that. Not becouse he called him names. Not becouse of a sickness. Maybe the could find a way to make it work? He would sure as hell try, becouse Hunter was the most important person in his life.

Being truthful Nate doubted that they could still be best buddies. He wouldn't- couldn't be friends with a giant. But he also couldn't think about it now. It wasn't just a giant, it was Hunter. He needed to find him and apologize to him.

He ran after him, trying to find a direction he suspected the boy would choose. He knew his favorite forest spots and that's exactly where he went.

After almost 40 minutes of looking for Hunter, Nate has found him. He was sitting on a tree branch, sobbing. Nate approached him, fear growing back in his body as well as tention, but he wouldn't give up so easily.

"Hey man.." Nate began to speak. The sudden sound must have startled Hunter because he fell down as he turned around to see who was speaking.

Before he could say anything the earth began to shake and he began to grow.

Nate soon remember what he had learned in health class - strong feelings might cause a size-shifter to morph uncontrollably.

Nate looked up with wide eyes as his best friend was transformed into a 60ish foot tall giant beast.

"N-Nate..?" Hunter mumbled uncertainty as he realised he had grown, looking at his now tiny best friend.

Nope.

Nate turned around and began to run as fast as he could. He wouldn't be cought by a giant.

"Wait, Nate, please!!"

-----------------------

Thank you for reading, sorry it took me so long to update, hope you enjoy a new story! 💙💙

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singstaircase · 4 months ago

Text

Walking into your dagger for the very last time– Pedri

summary: At seven, Pedri wondered if soulmates truly exist. He didn't expect to find his in seven years through the virtual world. Or in which Pedri meets someone in a video game lobby and shenanigan ensues

Contains: fluff, little bit of angst, not a happy ending, mentions of feeling lonely, the pandemic, injuries

this ended up being more Pedri centric then I imagined. Obviously some stuff are made up because I don't know Pedri. Enjoy!!!

Pedri is thirteen years old the first time he gets into an argument with his manager, and it feels like the worst thing in the world.

Football is everything to him, so why can't the coach understand? Why can't his coach see that?

He would've been fine if it was just another league game – hell, he would've accepted not playing or even losing, if it was just another league game. But it was Copa de Campeones final! His sole chance of being in Europe.

So what if he accidentally injured himself while making a tackle? So what if the medical team thinks he should rest?

So fucking what? At thirteen, football is his lifeline. Why can't his manager just understand?

***

So, Pedri does what any teen forced to sit out and watch his team lose a final would do; lock himself in his bedroom and play one video game he would not play in any other circumstance. CS:GO (Counter-Strike: Global Offense) with strangers from God knows where.

Pedri knows he'll regret staying up this late but he doesn't care. That's for future Pedri to worry about. His focus now is on shooting strangers in the virtual world and he'd be lying if he says he isn't enjoying this.

***

It's past midnight and he waits in the lobby, pondering.

Thinking if his coach was serious about not playing him anymore and about so much more which doesn't help at all to ease his sudden spike in nervousness about the future and what it holds.

Someone with the gamer tag [Username] joins to complete the lobby. Pedri's certain he'll forget about them tomorrow, like everyone else.

***

Pedri has a natural talent for many things; football, disappointing his manager and as of now– playing CSGO; he realizes that as the game progresses.

Except for one round, where he lets his mind wander somewhere else and nearly ruins it for everyone. Fortunately for him, his saviour comes in the form of one stranger from who-knows-where, one who Pedri was sure he'd forget about.

Pedri likes them immediately. Unknowingly. Subconsciously. He feels an immediate connection with his mystery saviour for some strange reason.

"Thanks for saving my ass out there [Username]," he blurts out with haste, ready to log off.

And the reply comes a voice, a little clipped and barely audible to anyone else but clear as bells to Pedri's ears.

"You're welcome," before the mic goes silent again. Those to simple words would go on to shatter every single plan Pedri never made about his life trajectory and throw them into the gutter.

He doesn't know it yet but this'll be simultaneously the best and most painful thing that would ever happened to him.

Pedri ends up saving the gamer tag of his saviour stranger and reaches out whenever he needs someone to play with or fill the lobby.

Or that is what he tells himself.

Sometimes he invites them when he has a bad game or another argument with his manager. At times just because. And to Pedri's surprise, the stranger responds to his 'pleas' almost every time.

A part of him is happy that they don't ignore him. Yet, another part underneath the surface is also scared that one day, this stranger he's growing fond of, will leave him without saying goodbye and he'll be left to his own again.

Deep inside him there's a creature that won't show up in x-rays, one that is always trying to protect Pedri's soul.

One that has been urging him to finally properly talk to this stranger, make a deeper connection. Something that will stay forever. Perhaps a friendship that will transcend lifetimes. Maybe something even more…?

And today he finally surrenders to those thoughts in his mind.

Today his manager told him he won't be playing for a while. The worst that could happen at this point in his life, happened. He has nothing to lose now and he's never been more sure of it.

Today, with the news that he'd be sidelined, Pedri finally acts on his long-held impulse.

***

Pedri does it. He actually does it, uncertain if it's the correct decision. He sends the message, heart pounding, and anxiously waits for a reply.

Or not. He doesn't know. Maybe they finally got fed up with him. Maybe they don't care enough to reply.

A small sound emits from the computer, signifying a new message.

⊙ [Sir González] Wanna be friends

⊙ [Username] Sure, why not?

At fourteen years old, Pedri wonders, for the very first time, if it's possible to be friends with someone living thousands of miles away.

The thing about friendship is… sometimes you don't know when it started.

Pedri can't pinpoint when he and his stranger became friends.

If you were to ask Pedri when and how he formed this connection, he won't answer. Because he can't, he doesn't have answers to those questions.

But Pedri knows this is a friendship, he has a friend, be it in the virtual realm. He looks forward to talking to them through messages, cherishes playing with them everyday.

The possibility of gaining a friend through the screen isn't something Pedri ever considered, but he isn't going to complain.

One afternoon after training, he finds himself with a long list of notifications from his online friend. His stranger friend soon makes a habit of sharing their every passing thought to him.

He was taken aback the first time, but just like eagerly waiting for them each day after school or training, Pedri soon makes reading them an integral part of his life.

Sometimes fifty messages at once wait for him, sometimes ten with varying amounts of exclamation and capslock.

By June, he realizes his days without those messages feel incomplete. It has become a tradition for him to lock himself in his bedroom and seek comfort from those messages.

There's no denying this strangter is Pedri's best friend in the whole universe. He yearns to know more and more about them; what they like, where they live, do they see him the same way he does?

However, he can't quite answer their questions the same way, with the same enthusiasm.

Pedri is afraid; afraid they might judge him, or worse, ignore him if they learn more about him. They seem to understand that and he's grateful. But at some point, the stranger friend becomes cautious and quiet.

⊙ [Username] today was fun. Same time tomorrow?

⊙ [Sir González] yeah. I will message you if I have time.

⊙ [Username] Sure, no problem. By the way, what do you do half of the day lol

⊙ [Sir González] I... I can't answer that. I am so sorry.

The moment those green dots turn gray, a sudden expected pain takes over Pedri's entire body. The reply comes after a painful five minutes of silence from the other side.

⊙ [Username] I understand. Talk you later then.

Today might be the day they reach their wits' end, he fears. And in impulse, he makes a significant decision.

Parting away from this could mean a goodbye, one that he's not willing to say. Not yet. Never.

⊙ [Sir González] Pedri.

⊙ [Username] ???

⊙ [Sir González] My name, it's Pedri. You can call me Pedri if you want.

This is the most vulnerable Pedri has ever been in his fourteen years of life and he can only pray that his friend doesn't leave and now.

⊙ [Username] Pedri. Perfectly suits you. Well Pedri, talk to you soon then. And my name is (Name). You call me that if you want :)

Later that night

2018

Things were going well, too well– he should've recognized that as the first warning of what was about to come.

He was becoming closer than ever with (Name), he was in his coach's good graces again and best of all– he was actually starting matches and doing well.

It just had to happen now.

***

The x-ray results came back worse than he had feared.

To be honest, he doesn't understand much of it but one look at the doctors, their pitiful look and guilty expression, said everything left unsaid.

He isn't a doctor but even he knows he words 'Hamstring', 'Ligament', 'ACL', and 'Torn' being in the same sentence can never mean anything good.

***

His phone flooded with notifications, finds Pedri in his room amidst distant noise.

Maybe it's his mother shouting at him not to slam doors like that, or perhaps it's the nagging creature inside that only knows how to make everything worse.

A single notification comes through, chiming, and illuminating the dark room as he's about to switch it to silent and throw it on the floor.

***

If it was anyone else, Pedri would just ignore and most definitely not talk to them for a long while. The last thing he needs now is pity. Pitying won't convince La liga clubs to sign him.

But he knows (Name) doesn't mean pity, they are just concerned. They radiate care, not fake sympathy.

He copies the number. He writes the number. He presses 'Call'.

Heart thumping, Pedri anxiously awaits a voice from the other side. "What the fuck am I doing," he sighs, running a hand through his hair. But just as he's about to put the phone down,

"Pedri?" He hears someone say faintly.

"Hey, (Name)." The name comes out like a prayer from his mouth.

"Hi," they say like a sigh, like a burden had just been lifted from them.

"So..um I have no idea how to comfort you because I don't have friends who play professional football," the nervous laughter on the other side is melodic and that is the moment Pedri learns even laughter can be a powerful weapon.

"But I just want to say it's going to get better, okay? I know this might seem like the end of the world now but it gets worse before it gets better."

There is a slight delay for a moment. "Wait no that sounded too depressing," mutters (Name). "Ignore me please. I have no idea what I'm saying."

Pedri smiles, even though he knows (Name) can't see him. "I get what you meant, don't worry. Thank you. It means more than you realize." The smile in his voice very clear, even to someone a thousand miles away.

"Pedri?" He hums in response, barely audible.

"I am here for you. Always."

Biting his lips, Pedri contemplates on adding the next bit. And in the next breath he says, "Love you (Name)."

His statement is met with silence. He waits and nothing comes. That feels worse than being told he sounded embarrassing.

"Oh," (Name) says, sounding cautious and confused. Pedri feels the singe of embarrassment. He starts to laugh nervously, ready to make excuse.

In the next moment, however, all the air in his lung rushed out in one breath.

"Love you too Pedri," (Name) says. "Talk to you tomorrow, hm?" His heart skips.

"Yeah, talk to you tomorrow," he mumbles.

Closing his eyes, Pedri holds dearly onto those four words, letting them settle in his heart, knowing he has found something truly precious in the most unexpected of places.

***

The same night, Pedri receives confirmation from the club– it's not as bad as they feared; a grade two hamstring tear. He'll only be out for four to eight weeks.

On that very same night, Pedri learns Las Palmas will sign him in July no matter what, and Pepe Mel, the coach, is willing to promote him to the first team, even at just sixteen.

That night, He dreams of the champions league, of being in Berlin and celebrating with a faceless companion.

2019

Pedri is sixteen the first time he contemplates quitting football to do something meaningful in life.

It's been a month since he signed for Las Palmas, two months since he started a game and four months since he last won a game.

The preseason game that he did started, shattered his confidence, leaving him questioning his place in football. And the persistent, nagging creature inside him is now whispering louder than ever, urging him to consider a different path.

Maybe he should quit football altogether. He is still young, there's still time to turn his life around, get a degree and a normal job in the future. Live a normal, ordinary life like most of the people of the world.

"Pedri watch out!"

He jumps at the sudden voice, almost falling down from his chair. He blinks to register what's on his screen, seeing the avatar of (Name) crouching in front of him.

"Pedri?" The concern in (Name)'s voice makes Pedri sit up.

He sinks back to his chair. Yet, again, he let his mind wander into the depths of self-doubt and ruin the amusement for everyone. He's convinced he has a knack for turning every moment sour.

"Sorry I zoned out," he mumbles. The groan in everyone else's voice confirms his self-loathing.

"I think that's enough for Pedri and I today. How about–" The voice of (Name) goes on on the other side gently.

Pedri can't comprehend the words being spoken but the sharp focus on their voice does wonder to soothe his racing heart.

It sounds harmonious, and soul soothing.

"Bye guys!" (Name) calls out at the end, their voice fading as others start to leave, bringing his focus on his screen again.

It's just (Name) and Pedri now, once again. A familiar comfort.

"You did very well today, Pedri," (Name) says, wholeheartedly. The sincere praise washes over Pedri, filling him with an electric rush.

The sensation in his chest resembles a cold rush. It's as if their voice is a gust of arctic wind sweeping through his heart, leaving behind a trail of shivers that dance along his spine.

Watching the green dots turn gray, Pedri's room seems to glow with the echoes of (Name)'s words through his phone.

(Name) 💘 Hey How did your training go?

Pedri 🌟 Shit but is it surprising anymore?

(Name) 💘 :(

Pedri 🌟 I am thinking about quitting football and doing something meaningful for once. I mean I am still young so....

(Name) 💘 WHAT THE FUCK DON'T SAY THAT. Football is meaningful because it means something to you!

Pedri 🌟 I don't know anymore (Name)...

(Name) 💘 Tell me do you feel happy when you play football?

Pedri 🌟 The happiest.

(Name) 💘 Then don't about that. It's not going to be easy, no good thing comes easily. But You are such a great player at sixteen already, just imagine how great you could be when you are 21?! But that won't happen if you quit now. It's not going to be easy but I know you can do it Pedri. You will make it, I just know it.

Pedri 🌟 No one has told me I'll make it except my parents.

(Name) 💘 I'd be upset if you were parents weren't supportive. Pedri, you will play in the Champions League, you will win trophies and you will make it. All you have to do is have hope and you'll be 50% there, work for it and you'll be 100% there.

Pedri 🌟 You think so?

(Name) 💘 I know so.

Pedri 🌟 I will dedicate my first goal in champions league to you. I promise.

(Name) 💘 That's the spirit! And I'll hold onto that promise, González. Even if things go shit, I will be here for you, Pedri. Always :).

Pedri is sixteen the last time he entertains the idea of quitting football to do something meaningful. In the gentle guidance of (Name)'s words, he finds the meaning he was searching for all along.

September, 2019

As he put the phone down, a warmth spread through Pedri's chest, and he couldn't help but wonder, Is this what it feels like to be truly cherished?

November, 2019

It felt as if his own eyes were betraying him. But it is the truth, Pedri will meet (Name) soon. The thought of playing right before (Name), finally being in their presence, fills him with an unexplainable euphoria.

This is not going to be one of his dreams anymore, this will be his reality in due time.

He is going to meet (Name) soon. And he can't wait.

March, 2020

Sometimes there comes moments in your life when you can just sense something is about to go wrong.

That day when Pedri woke up, he could tell something was about to go wrong. He had that sinking feeling. And turning his TV on, he knew why.

The Spanish borders are set to be closed for the next 15 days but given the state of the world, it's almost certain to be extended.

It is the right decision, Pedri has no doubt about that. But that doesn't stop the feelings of disappointment in him.

In his heart, Pedri holds tight onto the belief that everything will be alright; he has to have faith that their paths are destined to cross.

He has to.

December, 2021

This is not how it was supposed to go.

One minute, (Name) was happily engrossed in their work, content with the news of Pedri's goal. And in the next moment, all they hear is silence.

Then chaos.

Words like 'down', 'heavy tackle', 'unconscious' are being thrown around in relation to Pedri. (Name)'s heart drops.

Rushing to the room, they barely catch sight of Pedri being taken away in a stretcher on the TV screen.

(Name) 💘

Pedri are you okay?? Are you hurt? God that's such a stupid question. Please let me know how you are. I love you.

It seems silly to expect Pedri to reply. After all, he was just taken away in a stretcher, of course he won't answer right away.

But (Name) can't stop themselves from calling him. In the voice message after the dial tone, they leave a message; praying and just praying Pedri will be alright.

***

An hour later, notifications from their phone catches (Name)'s attention. It's from Pedri.

Or rather, from his number.

Pedri 🌟 Hello. I am Ansu Fati, Pedri's friend. You must (Name).

(Name) 💘 Oh. Hello.

Pedri 🌟

So you are Pedri's friend from the other side.

(Name) 💘 I guess?

Pedri 🌟 Well (Name), Pedri's currently going through some medical procedures, don't worry though. He is in good hands. He'll be back soon, (Name)

(Name) can only have hope that Ansu's words would proven to be true.

***

Rest of the day is spent restlessly scrolling and refreshing every and any social media they have, hoping for something, anything regarding Pedri.

For now it's all the same news being repeated by everyone; a player violently tackled Pedri, causing him to lose his balance and hit his head on the goal post. The medical team soon intervened and he was taken to hospital for further checkups.

(Name)'s heart beats restlessly. Is Pedri alright? It looked like a nasty hit and from what they've been reading, he was bleeding too.

Was he hurting too much? Was he in too much pain? God, why did this have to happen to him or anyone? Is he–

The ringing of the phone breaks (Name)'s chain of thought. Seeing the caller, they swiftly answer, not wasting a single moment.

"Hello? Pedri, are you okay?" Those words, breathlessly, comes out of them but the voice that returns on the other end isn't the one (Name) was hoping for.

"Um..hello, I am Ansu Fati. You are (Name), right? It's a pleasure to finally talk to you. Pedri has talked a lot about you."

Their chest tightens. The disappointment and sadness that they feel at it not being Pedri is unmatched. But (Name) has to stay strong now, if not for themselves then for Pedri.

"Uh, yes. Nice to talk to you too, Ansu. Pedri has told me a lot about you too, but I wish we were talking in better circumstances."

"Me too," Ansu says sadly. "I actually called you to let you know that Pedri is awake now. Since you've been so worried about him I wanted to ask, do you want to talk to him?"

(Name) instantly perks up at the news. They nod their head rapidly, before realizing that Ansu can't see them.

"Yes!" The feeling of embarrassment comes a moment later. Clearing their throat, (Name) says, "I mean, yes of course. I would love to talk to Pedri."

"I am sure Pedri would absolutely love to talk to you right now."

Heart thumping, (Name) spins the little marbles in a plastic container, waiting to hear from Pedri.

(Name) feels relieved to know Pedri has someone as thoughtful and kind as Ansu in his life.

***

Saying those words, Ansu hands the phone over to an eager Pedri who wastes no time in taking the call.

Faintly from the otherside, he hears (Name) asking Pedri about his health, in the same breath that Pedri asks them the same question.

The gentleness in Pedri's voice while talking to (Name) brings a smile on Ansu's face.

This is the purest form of love he has seen and deciding not to disturb them, he leaves the room as quietly as possible, leaving Pedri and his friend to themselves.

***

When Ansu comes back later to check on Pedri, the sight he finds warms his heart.

Pedri is on his side, snoring softly with his phone by his side. The call to (Name) is still ongoing and Ansu can hear soft snores from the other side too.

Smiling to himself, he quietly removes the phone from Pedri's side and ends the call. Sending a quick message to a worrying Gavi and Araujo, he leaves the room smiling widely.

Ansu is glad Pedri has someone as caring and loving as (Name) in his life.

***

In the weeks following, Ansu, Pedri and (Name) fall into a routine.

Every night, Pedri and (Name) would have their daily calling sessions that continue until late, where both fell asleep while talking to each other. And every night, without fail, Ansu ends the call and leaves with a bright smile.

During the day, Ansu would message (Name), giving them updates about Pedri.

At first (Name) hesitated to call him. Their bestfriend is a famous footballer, so they shouldn't feel hesitant to make the call.

Especially since they feel like they basically know Ansu based on how much Pedri has talked about him. And after one call with him, all the hesitancy and dobuts were lifted. Pedri was right, Ansu Fati is really a sweet soul.

Neither know exactly when they started to enjoy talking to each other, but one afternoon, while talking and laughing about something that didn't necessarily have anything to do with Pedri, (Name) knew they had found another friend in Ansu Fati in this chaos.

February, 2022

Pedri 🌟 Hello! 👋

(Name) 💘 Oh hello. Sorry, I am out so I can't watch you play right now :(. But I thought you said you won't be online till 9? Xavi benched you?

Pedri 🌟 Oh yeah.

(Name) 💘 I am home now! I can finally watch you 😌

Pedri 🌟 DON'T.

(Name) 💘 ?? Pedri.... I just saw you get tackled on TV. Live.

Pedri 🌟 Funny thing you see....

(Name) 💘 Ah I see. This must mean you are one of Pedri's friends. So are you Gavi or Ferran?

Pedri 🌟 Ferran.

(Name) 💘 That makes you Gavi then. Hello Gavi. Nice to talk to you. Pedri has talked about you lot.

Pedri 🌟 Really?

(Name) 💘 mhm. You are the passenger princess!

Pedri 🌟 The....what?

(Name) 💘 Passenger princess. Someone who prefers being passenger. You don't know how many times I had to listen him rant about this 😩.

Pedri 🌟 😃

(Name) 💘 He's also talked about how great of a player and friend you are.

Pedri 🌟 He's talked a lot about you too!

(Name) 💘 He has?

Pedri 🌟 Hm. Shit, Pedri's seen me.

(Name) 💘 Oh no. Talk to you soon hopefully if you are found alive!

Pedri 🌟 Did you bother you? I swear to god this guy....

(Name) 💘 Pedri! I only watched the last 15 minutes but you were great! And did not. Gavi was quite lovely, actually.

Pedri 🌟 🥰. Are you sure? I can do something about it if it made you uncomfortable.

(Name) 💘 Oh my god Pedri, no don't do it. I appreciate it but he didn't do anything. Don't worry.

Pedri 🌟 If you say so. Shit i have to go now. Talk to you later love you ❤💙

(Name) 💘 Score more for me Love you too <3

April, 2022

Soon, Pedri will get to meet the person who made football special for him. He only has to wait till June. Only the months of April, May and June stand between Pedri and (Name).

June, 2022

A smile lit up (Name)'s face as they toss their phone onto the bed.

Tomorrow Pedri will be here, they will finally meet each other. Tomorrow is going to be the best day ever, (Name)'s certain.

But as is often the case, not everything goes in the way we envision.

June, 2022

Betrayal.

That's all (Name) could hear and feel.

Is this what it feels to be lied to, to feel betrayed?

(Name) blinks back the tears forming, taking a deep breath, and dialling Pedri's number for maybe the last time

Ending what they have is the right thing to do now, even if it hurts them both.

#pedri x reader #pedri imagine #pedri x y/n #pedri fanfic #pedri fluff #pedri x you #football x reader #football fanfic #football imagine #football fic #footballer imagine #footballer x reader

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slexenskee · 5 months ago

Note

What is the international view on Dabi and Ru-kun? What about Otheon? Do they envy Japan for having him and f-ing it up? Or do they look at his chaotic gremlin self and think, thank god he's not here?

Thanks for the newest update! I appreciate your hard work and dedication! ❤️

Yes and yes 😂

Most countries would love to have him, but are simultaneously relieved to not have to deal with him. But he definitely has massive international appeal, being famous for American music and being a European hero, even if he's based out of Japan.

Honestly, Otheon lowkey loves him. He's a huge pain in the ass and a massive chaos gremlin, but he's their agent of chaos, you know? The rest of the EU feels similar, and I imagine people go to the ruins of the old Humarise bases in all the various cities like they're tourist attractions lol. That random Swiss cafe that Ru-kun would meet up with Clair at? They let you take photos at the table he always sat at 😂 Otheon definitely makes a killing peddling 'Official' Six Eyes merch.

I actually think the tables have turned when it comes to his identities, and all his fans are scrambling to keep up;

For Dabi content, Japan is still the #1 source for all info. So all his international fans wait on baited breath for info from their JPN counterparts, and crowd around fan-translators for live updates.

For No Scrubs stuff though, it's the opposite. Fans have had to beg the English speaking fans for translations, especially for the older No Scrubs songs that aren't released officially and only exist as fan-video uploads. And those same fan-translators have had to reverse translate for JPN fans/fans for other languages.

Also, I headcanon that No Scrubs has always been more famous abroad than in Japan, just because of the way they got famous from fan-uploaded online youtube videos of English music, so they've always had a very broad international audience and by nature of the songs being in English, a lot of appeal to English speaking countries. But of course you don't have to be from an English speaking country to enjoy music in English, and with the internet being what it is, it's always been a very global fanbase.

But this means that straight from the get-go Makoto has always positioned No Scrubs to maximize their global appeal (when they finally got serious about PR and stuff lol) so they've always done global releases and when they do interviews and stuff it's not just centered around Japanese media, so that stuff has always been easily accessible to the global public.

And now that both identities are public, it's become the Pepe Silvia meme with fan translators trying to put together the lyrics of certain songs to various interviews in both english and japanese, and it's a big ole' mess 😂

#fic may death never stop you #mdnsy asks

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malehypnofantasy · 1 year ago

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Read Part 2 here

Ben Richards is the ultimate all-American douchebags. He's blonde, he's muscular, and he's rich, and he knows he's a hot shit so that laid out the foundation for his ego.

He's also well-connected, with his family embedded deep within the political and economic leadership of not only in the United States, but also globally. The sheer level of power the young brat holds compounded with his attractive looks made him feared, respected and the most important of all, adored.

People wanted to be on his good side and everyone tried to get close to him. But only the reserved few that can get close to him and enjoyed all the perks of being his good friends. The others won't be seen or noticed by Ben and he wouldn't even hesitate to set the record straight or put people back to their places id he wished to do so, and that involved regular people like Casey that he viewed just as insignificant miscreant. Yet, that didn't phase Casey anymore, not when he got his magical power by his side, as Ben would be nothing but his mere puppet to play with.

Casey's family member always preached the need for a sorcerer to have not only strong mentality, but also strong physique as magic tend to consume a lot of energy and can push a magician to its physical limit. Having stronger physique means higher tolerance of pain and limit to exert one's magic, and for Casey, Ben is the answer to it. Casey is just simply too lazy to work out to build his body and endurance, and with his family never worked with magic in related to physically transform oneself, he needed to resort something more involving mental. The plan that Casey have in mind is to basically hijack Ben's body and use that jock's body as a proxy. From the memory of his great grandfather, such feat is possible as certain magician pulled it off in the past to create this front for their business enterprise with mere mortal as their original form seemingly unable to wield charisma or charm that they are lacking while human have this tendency to fall and adore someone that exude such quality

Ben's latest update involved a shirtless selfie he took in the gym. That's almost an hour ago, and per latest intel, Ben supposedly went to Walmart after his gym session. When Casey and Ethan finally arrived in Walmart's parking lot, they spotted Ben's electric blue BMW still parked nicely with no one inside, so they know they just need to wait for the jock to walk out from the store.

After around 15 minutes of waiting, Ben finally walked out with several groceries bag in both hands. Watching from safe distance inside their own car, Casey eyed Ben like the prey he is while Ethan just stared at Ben with no regards to the safety of his supposed frat bros as he is already gripped tightly under Casey's control. Casey then started to make his move as Ben finished with putting down his groceries inside his car. He walked out from the car and then called the jock while running. As Ben turned around then made eye contact, Casey utilized the opportunity to froze the muscular jock under his control. His 20/20 vision proven to be his shortcomings as he clearly entranced with Casey's eyes he managed to see. With zero control over his body, he stripped himself off and then forced to turn around and faced the car by Casey.

Ethan eventually followed Casey to walk out from the car. From the distant, he witnessed Casey pressed his body close to Ben's body and a radiant glow emanated from the two. The glow turned blinding as Ethan got closer but after several seconds, the light vanished and while Ben's body flopped to the car seat, Casey's body dropped to the road. Ethan dashed his way to see what is happening and trying to find way to help Casey, but once he got closer to the car, Ben suddenly roared as he flexed his muscle

"Hey there Ethan, how do you like me now?" Ethan's eyes went wide, is that his Master's voice coming out of Ben Richard's mouth?? "--sorry, that doesn't sound right. How do you like me now?" Said Ben now with his usual tone and air of confidence that accompanied his sultry, deep voice

"Master, what happened?"

"Well, what about you put my body to the backseat and I'll explain to you what's up,"

So with ease, Ethan lifted Casey's original 130 lbs body and shoved it to the backseat and trampled Ben's gym bag as he then seated himself in the front passenger seat

"Okay, so let me explain---"

#male possession #male mind control #male hypno #male takeover #proxy #male hypnosis #casey's arc #main arc

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lefteagleblizzard · 5 months ago

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𝕬 𝖐𝖎𝖘𝖘 𝖆𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖌𝖆𝖑𝖆

Derek danforth x gn reader

Summary: while having some fun inside of his office, you and Derek gets momentarily interrupted by an employee to inform Derek about an invitation he received to a special event and he wants you to come with him. At a major commercial event, while Derek is busy networking, you encounter a former high school acquaintance who once exploited your kindness to gain popularity. Now a powerful figure in his industry, he evokes painful memories. Your discomfort grows until Derek intervenes.

Warnings: no pronouns used towards the reader. Smut, small angst moment and fluff. Oral sex (Reader receiving), public sex, make out session. Unprofessional relationship. Friends with benefits to lovers. Boss x secretary relationship. A continuation of the other stories I made for Derek but can also be read as a stand-alone.

Can also be found on ao3 and wattpad

Words count: 3100+

It was a typical Wednesday afternoon, and you were in Derek's lavish, well- appointed office. The office was a reflection of Derek's personality: imposing and extravagant. You were busy compiling files and documents for Derek, efficiently sorting through the plethora of paperwork that seemed to multiply by the minute.

Derek was feared and respected in equal measure within the industry. His favoritism towards you was no secret, and while it occasionally ruffled feathers among the staff, no one dared to challenge it outright.

You were lost in your work when the door to Derek's office swung open. Startled, you looked up to see Mr. Westwyld. He was a tall man with a perpetual look of mild confusion, as if he was always trying to solve a complex problem in his head.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Westwyld" you greeted him with a professional smile, attempting to mask your surprise and maintain an air of composure.

"Good afternoon," he replied, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for Derek. "I was hoping to speak with Derek about a large commercial event he's been invited to. It's quite important, and I need to brief him on the details."

His graying hair was impeccably combed, and his suit bore the faint creases of a long commute.

"Where's he?"

Underneath the desk, hidden from view, Derek was there, his presence a secret only you were privy to. You felt a slight tickle on your leg and had to stifle a giggle. Derek was evidently annoyed by the interruption but seemed to find amusement in the situation, his fingers danced along your calf.

You could feel his fingers trickling up your bare legs, feeling them encroaching further.

He's not going to wait.

"He's not here at the moment," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. "But I can take a message for him"

You words almost caught in your throat as Derek's fingers danced higher, his touch more insistent.

Mr. Westwyld looked slightly perturbed but nodded in acceptance. "Alright then. Please tell him that the annual Global Business Summit has extended an invitation to him. It's a significant event, with numerous high-profile attendees. For next week. A gathering of industry bigwigs"

Now, you were frustrated, and Derek could sense it in the knots of your flesh as he caressed your legs, breathing sweet love into you as he began to use his mouth and tongue.

You leaned back in the leather chair from the rush of pleasure. "Ah, t-the annual networking circus," you mused, drops of sweats starting to form on your forehead. "I'm sure Derek will be thrilled."

Mr. Westwyld raised an eyebrow. " Thrilled might be an overstatement. But it's essential for our company's image."

You nestled into the chair and instinctively spread your legs a little wider. You could feel Derek's lips curl into a smile. This was a brand of heaven; one you were enjoying. The waves and waves of pulsing pleasure wrapping around your lower half and making your body hum delightfully.

He brushed his lips against your bare leg down to your knee before proceeding to prep your thighs with light kisses over the still healing marks left by him from nights before.

The clothes and garments that keep your private parts hidden had been missing for more than an hour now, thank god hidden under the desk with him.

It was a little game that you and he made from time to time: you do the boring part of his work while he rewards you for your dedication.

God, this old man in front of you was still talking.

In truth, you barely listened. Your hands disappeared under the table and while your subconscious told you to pay attention, your fingers ran through Derek's mullet, all while he pleasured you in relative silence.

"-it would be a great opportunity for networking and potential partnerships. The details are in this folder." He handed you a thick manila folder.

Your fingers brushing against Mr. Westwyld's while you took the files. "Thank you" the spike of incredible pleasure catching your breath.

You struggled to keep your expression neutral, your body betraying you under Derek's relentless teasing.

Mr Westwyld's eyes lingered for a moment longer, his eyes studying you. "Are you alright? You seem... a bit distracted."

He ran his tongue and expertly flicked the bundle of nerves causing you to dig your other hand into his mullet. Derek began to lick and suck, feeling encouraged by your thighs tightening around his head and begging.

You forced a smile, fighting the urge to squirm as Derek's tongue kept torturing you in the most wonderful ways. A sharp and rather violent ecstasy. "Just a lot on my mind this morning, that's all. But thank you for your concern."

A muffled sound caught his attention, a soft giggle emanating from beneath the desk. His eyebrows shot up, and he glanced back at you.

"What was that?" he asked, suspicion etching his features.

You took the folder and placed it on the desk, your mind racing.

"I'll make sure he gets it" you assured Mr. Westwyld, avoiding the question he made while trying to maintain your professionalism despite the distracting sensations under the desk.

Derek's hand shot out from beneath the desk, fingers wiggling like a spider. He grabbed your ankle, and you stifled a yelp. Derek's touch was electric, and you struggled to maintain your composure.

Another sharp and semi-stifled moan escaped through your tight lips as you shuffled in the chair again, sliding back into its curve as Derek encroached further, holding your thighs deep into the curve of your rear and squeezing lovingly.

His face was again between your thighs, his facial air tickling you while his mouth did all the work.

Mr. Westwyld seemed satisfied with your response, although he lingered for a moment longer, his gaze lingering on you. "Thank you," he said finally, turning to leave.

You nodded, focusing on maintaining your composure as Derek's mouth and fingers continued their playful but torturous exploration.

As the door closed behind him, you let out a sigh of relief, you felt your eyes beginning to roll a little as you craned your neck, arched your back and let your body shudder in intense harmony. Your hips jolted as you felt the orgasm spread through your body.

You leaned forward, your face flushed with a mixture of annoyance and amusement while you were panting loudly, muffling the sounds you made with your hands.

"Derek, you're unbearable" you hissed, trying to maintain a semblance of composure.

Derek's hands stilled for a moment, then he emerged from under the desk with a mischievous grin, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

"You handled that well," he said, his voice a low, teasing drawl. "But you know, I love seeing you squirm."

You glared at him, though your annoyance was tempered by the undeniable attraction you felt. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep a straight face when you're doing that?"

Derek laughed, a sound that was both infuriating and intoxicating. "That's the point, love. I like keeping you on your toes."

You shook your head, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips despite yourself. "You're impossible."

"And yet, you love me for it," he replied, his eyes sparkling with mischief and affection.

You sighed, leaning back in the chair as Derek stood and stretched.

He reached out, pulling you up from his chair and into his arms. Derek leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was both passionate and tender, a silent affirmation of your bond.

"Here, have fun reading all of this" you laughed while holding up the stack of papers that was now delivered.

Derek waved them away dismissively. "We'll get to that. But first, I want to ask you something important."

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "What is it?"

"I want you to come with me to the summit" he said, his tone casual but his eyes serious.

You blinked, taken aback. "Me? Derek, don't you think it would be better to bring some of the coworkers to give speeches? Or to inform others about the company's progress?"

Derek shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "I don't care about that. I want you to come with me. I need good company. These events always ends up being insufferably boring, and I want someone I can escape with when it gets too dull. You're coming with me"

"Alright, if you're sure."

Derek grinned, standing up and pulling you into his arms, lifting you momentarily to drop you on his desk. "Good, now you have to promise me you'll make sure I don't die of boredom."

You laughed, shaking your head at his

antics. "Deal."

ꨄꨄꨄꨄꨄꨄꨄꨄꨄꨄꨄꨄꨄꨄꨄꨄꨄꨄꨄꨄꨄꨄꨄꨄ

You step out of the sleek limousine, adjusting your clothes. Tonight, you are dressed in an outfit that exudes elegance and confidence. Your attire is a stunning ensemble that strikes a perfect balance between professional and glamorous. Your shoes, polished to a mirror-like shine, carry you with confidence across the marble floor.

Derek steps out behind you, his hand resting possessively on your lower back as he led you through the throng of attendees at the grand commercial event.

The air buzzes with the hum of conversation, the clinking of champagne glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter.

Derek leans in close to you. "You look absolutely stunning tonight," he murmurs, his voice a low, intimate growl. Before you can respond, he captures your lips in a passionate kiss, his hand tightening possessively around your waist, drawing curious glances from the nearby attendees. The kiss is filled with the intensity of your relationship, a public display of your deep connection.

The intensity of his kiss catches you off guard and you pull back slightly, your cheeks flushing with a mixture of embarrassment and desire.

"Derek, we should wait until after the event" you whisper, glancing around nervously. He grins, a devil-may-care smile that speaks volumes about his disregard for public opinion. But he respects your wish, for now, and loosens his grip.

"Alright, but just know that I'll be counting down the minutes until I can have you all to myself," he teases, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

He makes use of his vape, winking to you before he saunters off, mingling with potential business partners and industry bigwigs. You watch him go, your heart swelling with a complex mix of affection and admiration. Despite his arrogance and the sometimes abrasive exterior, Derek has a way of making you feel cherished and protected.

With Derek occupied, you decide to explore the venue. The place is magnificent, every corner exuding luxury and sophistication. As you wander through the elegantly decorated halls, you find yourself marveling at the intricate details of the decor, the sumptuous fabrics, and the breathtaking floral arrangements. Lost in the beauty of your surroundings, you barely notice the familiar face that approaches you until it's too late.

And then you hear your name, a voice from the past. Turning, you find yourself face-to-face with someone you once knew. High school memories flood back: the late-night study sessions, the shared laughter, the trust you placed in this person. But time has changed him. He's no longer the awkward teenager you remember; he's become a powerful figure in his industry, a man who commands attention.

He smiles, and it's a practiced smile—the kind that conceals motives. "Long time no see," he says, dripping with faux sweetness.. "I've been following your career. Impressive."

You swallow, the memories of his betrayal resurfacing. How he'd used your kindness to climb the social ladder, leaving you bruised and wary. "Thank you," you reply, your voice steady. "Likewise."

He's dressed impeccably, his attire reflecting his status as an important figure in his industry. "It's been so long. How have you been?"

His face is older, more refined, but unmistakably the same. He is now an influential figure in his industry; and his confident demeanor only adds to your discomfort.

You force a smile, the old wounds aching anew, "I've been well" you reply, though your voice betrays a hint of discomfort.

He seems oblivious to your uncase, or perhaps he simply doesn't care. He launches into a monologue about his achievements, his rise to power, and the many people he's met along the way. You listen politely but your mind is elsewhere, trapped in memories of the past where his manipulations left you feeling used and discarded.

As he continues to talk, you feel a growing sense of discomfort. The bustling sounds of the event fade into the background as your thoughts swirl. You glance around, hoping to see Derek, to find some escape from this encounter. The room feels smaller, the air heavier.

Before you can respond, a familiar figure appears beside you. Derek, having noticed your absence, has come looking for you. His eyes narrow as he takes in the scene, instantly sensing the tension.

His eyes locked onto the man with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

"Derek" you begin, relief flooding through you, but he's already next to you. His presence is a powerful deterrent, and the smug expression of the man in front of you falters as Derek steps forward, his arm protectively encircling your waist.

"Who's this?" Derek says coldly, his tone sharp. He doesn't wait for an answer, his gaze shifting to the man, who suddenly seems less confident.

"Derek, this is..." you start, but Derek cuts you off.

He steps between you and the man, his posture aggressive. "I saw you making my partner uncomfortable."

The man's smile falters, his eyes darting nervously. "I was just catching up with an old friend," he stammers, his earlier confidence evaporating.

Derek's eyes narrow. "It didn't look like a friendly conversation to me."

You feel a surge of emotions, partly grateful for Derek's protection but also anxious about the escalating tension. The man tries to protest, but Derek's voice cuts through like a knife.

"Let me make this clear" Derek says, his voice low and dangerous. "You stay away from my partner. You don't even know what I could do to you with a simple phone call"

The man's face pales, and he stumbles over his words. "I didn't mean any harm. I swear. I was just-"

"Just leaving" Derek finishes for him. "Now"

The man nods quickly muttering a hasty apology before turning and walking away, his shoulders hunched in defeat.

Derek turns his attention to you.

"Let's go," he says, guiding you away from the encounter. You refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking back, deeply hoping this will truly be the last time you see him.

Derek leads you to a secluded area, away from the prying eyes of the crowd. Once you're alone, he pulls you into his arms, his lips seeking yours in a fervent kiss. You respond, but he quickly senses that something is amiss. He pulls back, his eyes searching yours.

"What's wrong? Is it really for that guy?" he asks looking at you with a mixture of amusement and disdain.

"You really let that guy get to you, huh?" he begins, his tone dripping with condescension. "Listen, you shouldn't waste your time or energy caring about what others think."

You shift uncomfortably, not sure how to respond. Derek's words, though harsh, have a strange allure. There's a part of you that wants to believe him, to embrace his indifference to others' opinions.

"You see." Derek continues, his voice softening just a fraction, "you're with me now. That makes you more powerful than you've ever been. People are irrelevant now. They don't matter."

He leans closer, his eyes narrowing. "By being by my side, you're now in a whole new level. You have the power to do whatever you want"

You feel a strange sense of reassurance, a flicker of newfound confidence.

"So, next time you see that loser," Derek concludes, standing up and straightening his light green suit. "remember who you are now"

Derek's words hang in the air, heavy with his characteristic arrogance. Yet, there's an undeniable truth in what he says. "And remember who you're with" he concluded his last sentence with a grin and a raised eyebrow.

A bubble of laughter escaped from your lips , feeling a surge of gratitude and love for the man who stands by your side. As he holds you, you can feel the weight of the past lifting, replaced by a renewed sense of determination and self-worth.

"And who knows," Derek adds with a mischievous glint in his eye, his arm wrapped around your shoulder as he started to walk with you tight against him "maybe we can come up with a plan to sabotage his industry. Just for fun."

"I'd like that," you reply, your spirits lifting as you laughed with him. Together, you and Derek leave the event, the limousine awaits.

As soon as the door closes behind you both, Derek's demeanor shifts. He nonchalantly instructs the driver to take you to his residence. Then, without wasting a moment, he turns to you, his eyes dark with intensity. He pulls you close and starts to kiss you possessively, his lips demanding and urgent.

Between kisses, he whispers fiercely, "You don't need to think of that man when you have me." His words are a mixture of reassurance and possession. "That man made the wrong enemy," he continues, his breath hot against your skin.

His kisses deepen, each one more passionate and fervent than the last. "You're mine," he murmurs, his voice low and commanding. "Only mine."

Each touch, each kiss, erases the dullness of the evening and the discomfort from the man's attention. Derek's presence consumes you, his possessiveness both thrilling and comforting. The limousine glides through the city streets, but inside, it's as if the world has narrowed down to just the two of you. Derek's kisses become more urgent, his whispers more fervent.

Each kiss, each whispered word, fills you with a sense of security and belonging. Derek's possessiveness, rather than feeling oppressive, makes you feel cherished and safe. He holds you close, his kisses never ceasing.

By the time you arrive at his residence, your mind is consumed with Derek, all thoughts of the man at the party and the tedious event completely erased. He helps you out of the car, his arm wrapped securely around you, leading you inside with a sense of purpose.

In the privacy of his home, Derek continues to show you how much he desires you, his actions speaking louder than any words. His kisses and whispered promises create a sense of security and belonging, making you feel cherished and protected.

As you rest in his embrace, you know that you're exactly where you belong.

Note: I really enjoyed writing this and love how it turned out, let me know if you also like had fun reading this <3

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thatsonemorbidcorvid · 10 months ago

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“Forced marriage — in which one or both parties do not give full, free consent — is recognized globally as a form of modern slavery. My story is far from unique: Around the world, 22 million people were in a forced marriage as of 2021.

Yet, even though the United States acknowledges that forced marriage is a human rights abuse, few laws and policies are in place to prevent or punish it, and the nation has paid such scant attention to this issue that we do not even know how often forced marriage happens here.

What’s more, child marriage remains legal in most U.S. states, even though it is recognized as a form of forced marriage and a human rights abuse. Some 300,000 children were married in the U.S. between 2000 and 2018, mostly girls wed to adult men. At least 60,000 marriages occurred at an age or with a spousal age difference that should have been considered a sex crime.”

Note: The following essay contains descriptions of sexual assault and abuse.

They sent me off to be raped, with a party and a tube of K-Y Jelly.

The lubricant was to reduce the intense physical pain they explained I would endure while being penetrated by a stranger-turned-husband, without foreplay, without consent. Every month. Until death do us part.

The party — a low-budget wedding in 1995 at a Brooklyn venue aptly nicknamed Armpit Terrace — was to distract me from the horrific reality of my forced marriage to the stranger.

“Mazel tov!” they told me, beaming.

In the reclusive Orthodox Jewish community in New York City where I grew up, choices about whether, when and whom I would marry did not belong to me. At home and at the all-girls religious school I attended, where I learned to cook and sew and keep house, I was groomed from early childhood to expect a teen marriage to a stranger my family and a matchmaker would choose for me.

I was allowed to meet the stranger several times before my engagement, but I was not allowed to be alone with him nor to have any physical contact with him. I was a clueless 19-year-old who had never been allowed to “talk to a boy,” and suddenly I was given a matter of hours, over a period of a few weeks, to answer my family and his family and the matchmaker and everyone in the community standing there, tapping their feet, looking at their watches, waiting for me to tell them: You’ll marry this man we chose for you, right?

“No” was never really an option.

During my six-week engagement, I still was not allowed to be alone with the groom nor to have any physical contact with him, which left more time for me to begin experiencing the myriad other abuses that come with a forced marriage.

First, a virginity exam. The groom’s rabbi sent me to an Orthodox Jewish gynecologist, where I was instructed to disrobe, get on the examination table and put my feet in the stirrups. The doctor inserted her gloved fingers into my vagina and confirmed that my hymen was intact.

“Mazel tov!” she told me, beaming.

I attended one-on-one bridal classes, where the curriculum centered on the requirement that I have unprotected sex with my husband on my wedding night and on a monthly basis thereafter. A lifetime of rape.

Yes, the rapes probably would hurt, the bridal class teacher explained. Hence the K-Y Jelly.

“Mazel tov!” she told me, beaming.

My stranger-turned-husband turned out to be violent and abusive. I learned this exactly one week after our wedding, when he became enraged because he had woken up late, and he punched his fist through the wall — hard enough to leave a sizable hole.

His first threat to kill me came only days later. Soon these threats became more frequent, specific and gruesome. He was brimming with creative ideas for how he would end my life, and he took the time to describe them to me in vivid detail. A lifetime of fear.

Yet I was trapped.

My forced marital sex was carefully timed each month for when I was ovulating. The reason for this was obvious: My first child was born 11 months after my wedding, and soon I had a second child.

I love my daughters, but I did not consent to having them. A lifetime of forced parenthood.

This denial of sexual and reproductive rights was not the only shackle preventing me from leaving my marriage. My husband did not allow me to have my own bank account or credit card, and I was taught that, under Orthodox Jewish law, if my husband allowed me to work, any money I earned belonged to him. A lifetime of domestic servitude and financial dependence.

I had limited legal rights too. Under Orthodox Jewish law, only a man can grant a divorce. I, as a woman, did not have the legal right to end my own marriage. A lifetime of being locked in unwanted wedlock.

One escape route for me would have been to move back in with my family as an agunah, a “chained woman” who is bound to a husband who refuses her a divorce. The life of an agunah is brutal; she is shamed for her powerlessness, blamed for her failed marriage and treated as an outcast.

But even this dreadful escape route was closed to me, because my family refused to take me back in. A lifetime of betrayal.

So I remained trapped in my abusive forced marriage. In accordance with Orthodox Jewish law, I was considered “unclean” every time I menstruated. While I was “unclean,” I was prohibited from having physical contact with my husband, sleeping in the same bed as him, handing him anything or undressing or singing in front of him. A lifetime of shame.

Once my period ended, I needed to count seven “clean” days without any menstrual blood, during which time the rules against physical contact continued. To make sure I stayed “clean” for the full seven days, I was required to wear white panties and, twice a day, to insert a white cloth into my vagina, swish it around and inspect it in sunlight to make sure it did not have blood spots. If I found questionable marks on my panties and could not tell whether they were blood, the rabbi would inspect them and give his pronouncement.

And the rabbi would keep my panties. A lifetime of extreme patriarchy.

Each month, after the seven “clean” days, I was forced to strip naked in front of an attendant who watched me immerse in a mikvah, or a ritual bath of rainwater, which frequently left me with a yeast infection and always left me shaking uncontrollably. A lifetime of violation.

All I wanted, every time I left the mikvah, was to take a hot shower and scrub the violation off me. That was prohibited. Instead I was required to go home and have nonconsensual sex with the man who had spent the day describing to me in graphic detail how he was going to murder me. The man who would not let me close the door when I used the bathroom, because “what was I hiding from him in there?”

No matter. I had to get on the bed and spread my legs and forget what had happened to me at the mikvah and ignore the pain while I waited for him to finish, and I had to remind myself how lucky I was that he usually was done after only three or four thrusts. A lifetime straight out of Margaret Atwood’s “The Handmaid’s Tale.”

Forced marriage — in which one or both parties do not give full, free consent — is recognized globally as a form of modern slavery. My story is far from unique: Around the world, 22 million people were in a forced marriage as of 2021.

My husband would regularly search through my personal belongings in front of me, including in the pockets of the clothing in my closet and in my bag of tampons under the bathroom sink. A lifetime of subjugation. When I finally realized at age 27 that I was the only person who would help me leave my abusive forced marriage alive and I decided I would secretly save up cash for my escape, I found the only safe hiding place in the house: a box of Whole Grain Total in the pantry.

I saved more than $40,000 in that cereal box over the next five years.

During those years I also defied my community and did something no one in my family had ever done: I became a college student. My husband forbade me from attending classes. I informed him, calmly, that nothing he did to me would stop me from getting my education.

And I did something no one I knew had ever done: I threw out the limp, ugly wig I was required to wear as a married woman to cover my own thick, healthy hair. I walked outside with my uncovered head held high — the equivalent, in that community, of walking outside naked.

My family retaliated immediately by shunning me. One of my sisters notified me that my family was planning to sit shiva — or observe the Jewish mourning ritual for me — as if I had literally died. I have had almost no contact with my family since that day. A lifetime of being dead.

But I graduated from Rutgers University (as commencement speaker, the equivalent of valedictorian) at age 32, and I escaped my abusive forced marriage on my own, with my daughters and my box of Total. I fled the Orthodox Jewish community too, and I rebuilt my life.

In 2011 I founded a nonprofit organization, Unchained At Last, to combat forced and child marriage in the U.S. through direct services and systems change.

The U.S. is one of 193 countries that agree forced and child marriage are harmful practices, particularly for women and girls, and have promised to eliminate these abuses by year 2030 to help achieve gender equality, under the United Nations Sustainable Development Goals. Yet the U.S. is not on track to keep its promise.

I refuse to accept this. Not after I escaped my lifetime of oppression.

We at Unchained are fighting back by providing crucial wraparound services to a long-ignored population: those who are fleeing an existing or impending forced marriage in the U.S. To date we have provided legal and social services, always for free, to nearly 1,000 individuals, to help give them a lifetime of dignity, safety and hope.

We also started a national movement to end child marriage. In the last few years, our groundbreaking research and relentless advocacy have allowed us to help change the law in 10 U.S. states to ban child marriage — a stunning victory for the 7.5 million girls who live in those 10 states — and we are working on the other 40.

A lifetime of preventing other lifetimes of rape.

“Mazel tov!” I now tell myself, beaming, with each triumphant step closer to ending forced and child marriage in the U.S.

Fraidy Reiss is a forced marriage survivor turned activist. She is the founder and executive director of Unchained At Last, a survivor-led nonprofit organization working to end forced and child marriage in the U.S. through direct services and systems change. Fraidy’s research and writing on forced and child marriage have been published extensively, making her one of the nation’s foremost experts on these abuses. She has been featured in books (including as one of the titular women in Hillary and Chelsea Clinton’s “The Book of Gutsy Women”), films and countless television, radio and print news stories.

Need help? Visit RAINN’s National Sexual Assault Online Hotline or the National Sexual Violence Resource Center’s website.

Do you have a compelling personal story you’d like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we’re looking for here and send us a pitch.

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kiwiana-writes · 9 months ago

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WIP Wednesday

Thanks @indestructibleheart @junebugclaremontdiaz @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @getmehighonmagic and @onthewaytosomewhere for the tags! Hitting post on this earlier than usual because I feel like death warmed over—I'm posting this and going to bed... at 9pm on Valentine's Day. Follow me for more sexy action stories.

I feel like this snuck up on me this week... I was so focused on finishing and posting sex club spanking that I stopped paying attention to the passage of time. It's a scam anyway, so.

Today's snippet is the opener to chapter three of the Big Secret Collab, because the amount of the Anastasia AU I've shared is getting a bit ridiculous lmao.

Alex is dimly aware that he’s having a panic attack. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling. He averaged one a semester in law school, not to mention the whole ‘forcefully outed on a global stage’ incident. He has a number of grounding techniques taught to him by an excellent therapist, and Cash’s hand between his shoulder blades, pressing so hard it’s just the right side of painful and giving him a physical sensation to focus on that isn’t his racing heart or sweating palms. He has a boyfriend who— A boyfriend who— “Breathe, Alex.” The hand that isn’t on his back reaches out and Alex grips it, fighting through every breath. He’s pretty sure his nails are digging into Cash’s skin, but Cash doesn’t flinch; he just sits there, solid and dependable and calm, and waits for Alex to come back to himself.

Tagging @affectionatelyrs @anchoredarchangel @anincompletelist @celaestis1 @celeritas2997 @cha-melodius @clottedcreamfudge @cricketnationrise @cultofsappho @daisymae-12 @dumbpeachjuice @everwitch-magiks @firenati0n @happiness-of-the-pursuit @heybuddy-drabbles @indomitable-love @inexplicablymine @leaves-of-laurelin @littlemisskittentoes @lizzie-bennetdarcy @magicandarchery @matherines @myheartalivewrites @ninzied @nocoastposts @notspecialbabe @orchidscript @rmd-writes @sherryvalli @ships-to-sail @smc-27 @sparklepocalypse @ssmtskw @stereopticons @three-drink-amy @tintagel-or-cockleshells @welcometololaland @whimsymanaged and, as always, anyone who wants to play! (If you take the open tag please tag me so I can see!!)

#wip wednesday #kiwiana-writes #wip: rwylm #bouncing between docs like a particularly rabid pinball right now #one day my wip list will be back under 50 and we'll all feel so blessed

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blackvortex · 1 year ago

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Lovesick

— 🧸 Pairing: Lee Taeyong x (F) Reader

— 🧸 Themes: sadistyandere!taeyong, yangire!taeyong, soloartist!taeyong, !fangirlreader

— 🧸 Warning: mentions of death, blood, extreme gore, manipulation, toxic love, stalking, abduction, mental health, etc.

— 🧸 Summary: Lee Taeyong, A very well-known solo artist in his country has a dirty little secret. What was once a longing desire has now reached reality, It was the desire of Inflicting pain and torturing his fans to create all of his musical masterpiece, admiring the faint screams of his name coming from their mouths and enjoying the sheer pain they are suffering from in the hands of himself. Yet, he still had one desire to fulfill, the desire of having you all to himself.

A/N: The themes are altered to match the story. I apologize for the very very very very long wait, feel free to share your suggestions with me regarding about the fic! 'Lovesick' is also available on Wattpad! (wattpad: blackvortexwastaken)

CHAPTER 1: THE ORIGIN

The mysterious origins of the extraordinary luminary, Lee Taeyong, remain veiled in obscurity, as he has steadfastly chosen to withhold any details about his lineage or ancestral heritage, even when prompted by others.

Without a doubt, Taeyong's inclination to safeguard the privacy of his personal life is palpable. However, he does unveil a remarkable facet of his journey, disclosing that prior to embarking on his transformative path as a K-pop trainee, he honed his skills as a talented bartender, achieving mastery in the art of mixology.

After securing a position as a bartender, a newfound fervor surged within Taeyong, igniting an unwavering passion for the realm of idolhood. With relentless determination, he embarked on a quest for knowledge, fully immersing himself in the captivating world of K-pop idol shows. His sole objective was to absorb, analyze, and emulate the most accomplished soloists and adored group members. Diligently, he dissected their captivating presence, studiously examined their graceful movements, and scrutinized every aspect of their performances, leaving no characteristic of a transcendent superstar idol unexplored. Motivated by an indomitable desire to establish himself as an unrivaled idol capable of capturing the world's collective attention, Taeyong pursued his aspirations with unwavering dedication.

Taeyong's effortless triumph during the auditions effortlessly caught the attention of various companies, each fervently pursuing him. However, Taeyong, aware of the tempting offers from other entertainment entities, made a wise decision to join the prestigious SM Entertainment. This choice was influenced by SM Entertainment's esteemed reputation, not only in South Korea but also across the global K-pop landscape. Paired with his remarkable talents, cultivated through unwavering commitment, it was no surprise that his video showcasing his skills as a K-pop trainee rapidly spread, captivating the world's gaze.

Undeniably, Taeyong swiftly ascended to the status of SM Entertainment's favored artist, even prior to his official debut. His soaring popularity led to a plethora of privileges bestowed upon him, surpassing those granted to any other idol within the esteemed establishment at a similar stage of their career. Taeyong received an abundance of guaranteed projects, meticulously tailored to further enhance his renown. Moreover, he was offered the opportunity to debut as a member of SM Entertainment's new boy group, "NCT," obtaining the coveted roles of visual, main rapper, and main dancer. In addition, his journey encompassed a solo debut, amplifying his artistic prowess and individuality.

Upon making his debut as a member of NCT 127, the enigmatic and captivating idol, Lee Taeyong, swiftly became the center of attention. In an instant, his schedule grew exponentially busier, and his name began circulating across various social media platforms, articles, and throughout the vast landscape of the K-pop community. With his alluring beauty and irresistible charm, Taeyong became a prime target for modeling agencies, continuously receiving offers due to his undeniable appeal. Every camera lens and gaze seemed to be fixated upon this exceptional idol, as if the world momentarily paused to revel in his presence. It was indisputable that he held an unparalleled sway over the collective consciousness at that particular moment. Unquestionably, Taeyong reveled in the adoration and eagerly sought every ounce of attention that came his way as time progressed. It became increasingly apparent that he was destined for the stage, a natural-born superstar who is destined to be under the spotlight.

However, akin to many other idols in the expansive world of K-pop, the initial euphoria surrounding Taeyong's debut eventually subsided, leaving behind a sense of disenchantment. It appeared as though his grand entrance had not yielded the remarkable impact that was anticipated. Consequently, the prospect of Taeyong debuting as a soloist, along with his other promotional projects, was regrettably withdrawn by the company, citing a perceived decline in public interest.

Naturally, Taeyong found himself dissatisfied with this turn of events. He steadfastly refused to settle for anything less than what he believed he deserved. While there were still loyal fans who wholeheartedly supported him, he is yearning for greater fame and attention surpassed the fame he had attained during his debut. He craved more, an insatiable desire that led him to contemplate drastic measures, even if it meant sabotaging his fellow group members, all in pursuit of securing the coveted spotlight he so fervently desired.

Despite Taeyong's downfall, he maintained an outward facade, emulating a charm that had long been overshadowed by resentment. He diligently worked with his bandmates, flawlessly recording their latest album, "2 BADDIES," never missing a beat. Following a lengthy lunch break, he returned to the studio only to be met with the gift of fate. The pungent smell of burning wires filled the air, setting off alarm bells in his mind. Hastily, he made his way to the control room, only to find the doorway blocked by the recording equipment. On the other side, his bandmates pounded on the door, their desperate cries mingling with the crackling of flames.

Taeyong called out to them, rushing towards the fallen equipment, instinctively reaching out to save his fellow members, only to abruptly freeze. In that moment, he found himself transfixed. Each breath became a conscious, deliberate act, demanding his full attention, while the distant cries grew faint until they were scarcely audible. Slowly, he stepped back, his realization dawning upon him. They were screaming his name as the flames consumed them. Their desperate pleas echoed in his ears, "Taeyong!" "Lee Taeyong!" "Taeyong!" It was a hauntingly beautiful sound, etching itself into his soul. When the fire fighters finally arrived, his tears flowed freely.

His tears continued to flow unabated, but alongside the sorrow, an unsettling sense of satisfaction began to seep into Taeyong's being. The haunting cries that reverberated with his name brought an unexpected thrill, sending shivers down his spine. Each agonized scream became a twisted symphony in his mind, a perverse melody that he savored with perverse delight. As the echoes of their screams repeated in his thoughts, a morbid idea took hold of him. The notion that he had successfully orchestrated the downfall of his bandmates to create a gaping void for his own fame not only intoxicated him but also sparked a disturbing inspiration within him. It ignited a desire to infuse his music with elements of violence and darkness

CHAPTER 2: TRAGIC TURN OF EVENTS

The tragic news of the untimely demise of nine members from the beloved boy band group NCT 127 reverberated with an unprecedented swiftness. The devastating information spread across the vast expanse of the internet, permeating news outlets and inundating various social media platforms. The collective mourning and outpouring of heartfelt condolences enveloped the entire community, extending solace to the grieving family members and loved ones of the victims. Among the somber aftermath, one member stood as the lone survivor, bearing the weight of unimaginable loss.

As a relatively new fan of NCT, the impact of this harrowing news weighed heavily upon you. Despite just your recent liking of the group, the magnitude of the tragedy stirred within you a profound sense of sadness. Compelled to express your emotions, you sought solace in online forums, joining others in grieving and sharing your condolences during this somber period.

Amidst the overwhelming sorrow, a deep concern for the sole surviving member of the group, Lee Taeyong, gripped your thoughts. You contemplated the immense burden he must be shouldering in the wake of such a tragic event. Driven by a genuine empathy, you tirelessly sought ways to reach out to him online, yearning to offer solace and comfort during this trying time. Utilizing the Bubble app, to which you subscribed, you composed a heartfelt message for Taeyong, hoping to provide a source of support and understanding amid the aftermath of these unfathomable events.

“Taeyong, I am sending my deepest condolences towards you and those who were also affected by this horrid news. I hope you are holding up well and eating a lot, please still take care of yourself and I want to let you know that we are all supporting you and whatever it is that you decide on doing now, we will wholeheartedly support you no matter what. <3”

Sent, 14:34

As the memories of that tragic event resurfaced, it felt as though time had both stood still and raced forward, for it had already been three years since the devastating incident unfolded. The nightmare that had gripped the K-pop community during that period continued to cast its shadow even to this day, a somber reminder of the fragility of life. How you wished it were all a dream, a cruel illusion that could be banished with a simple awakening.

Sighing, you pushed these heavy thoughts aside, diverting your attention to your present reality. You focused on your full-time job as a waitress at a local café, located in close proximity to your residence. As the closing hours approached, you bid farewell to the last customers of the day, offering them warm smiles and well wishes as they departed from Vortex Café. Taking a deep breath, you swiftly embarked on the task of tidying and cleaning the café, eager to complete your responsibilities for the evening.

On your way home, you eagerly reached for your phone in your bag, looking to find any updates regarding Taeyong. Following the tragic event, he had taken a hiatus from the spotlight during those past three years. However, the recent announcement by SM Entertainment declaring Lee Taeyong's official debut as a soloist sent shockwaves of excitement through the internet. The anticipation among fans was palpable, as they rejoiced at the prospect of Taeyong returning to what he was destined to do.

This news brought a sense of joy and relief to you, as you had been diligently saving up to meet him. Being a relatively new fan who joined the fandom shortly after the tragic accident, you had not yet had the opportunity to see the renowned Lee Taeyong in person. The prospect of finally witnessing his presence and experiencing his artistry firsthand filled you with anticipation. Taeyong had become an influential figure in your eyes, and your love for his work was unwavering

CHAPTER 3: MUSICAL MASTERPIECE

A year into his hiatus, Taeyong immersed himself in solitude, utilizing the time to introspect and meticulously plan his upcoming musical endeavors. As he delved into the depths of his creative mind, haunting echoes of the horrified screams from his band members during the fire accident resurfaced with unsettling clarity. The memories lingered, evoking a sinister desire within him. He craved more of those desperate cries, yearning to hear his name chanted in fear once again. The twisted obsession grew, driving him to plot his next move and identify a potential victim to serve as a vessel for his violent ideas. His newfound fixation centered around incorporating these horrified screams into his music, creating an amalgamation of darkness and artistry that blurred the boundaries of conventional expression.

As Taeyong sought solace in his artistic endeavors, he sought refuge in a remote and abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Its desolation ensured that his forthcoming musical masterpiece, with its unsettling undertones, would remain concealed from prying ears. With meticulous preparation completed, the time had finally arrived for Taeyong to embark on his daring experiment: the fusion of violence and music.

His first target was a persistent sasaeng fan, an individual who had relentlessly pursued him during his hiatus. Acutely aware of this unwelcome presence, Taeyong bided his time, waiting for the opportune moment to take action. Positioned on a bench in a park near his residence, he remained vigilant, keenly observing the sasaeng fan stationed just outside the park, near a bustling bus stop. Clutching a camera adorned with a shoulder strap, the fan deliberately angled it towards Taeyong, capturing his every move. The clarity of her intent was unmistakable, as she persisted despite the passage of numerous buses.

Taeyong stifled a quiet chuckle as he moved leisurely towards his unsuspecting target. "How long are you willing to stay here?" Taeyong's hushed words brushed against her ear. Startled by his sudden presence, the sasaeng leaped in surprise. She gazed intently at the idol before her, struggling to collect herself after the unexpected encounter. "Um... You..." The sasaeng stammered, still shaken by his abrupt approach. "What's the matter? Why are you so taken aback? Did you really believe I wouldn't notice you from a distance?" Taeyong's smile widened as he gradually closed the gap between them. "Would you prefer a change of location? You must be pretty hungry for staying there for too long.” Taeyong continued.

The sasaeng stood motionless in her position, her mind racing with the countless advantages she could reap from this very encounter. If the conversation went smoothly, she might find herself alone with the idol, a cherished fantasy she had nurtured for an extensive duration after years of relentless following.

It was almost as if Taeyong possessed an enchanting aura that bewitched anyone fortunate enough to cross his path. The prospect of accumulating wealth through obtaining his personal information and, perhaps, even acquiring one of his personal possessions tantalized her thoughts. Moreover, an even more gratifying outcome came to her thought, as it could potentially pave the way for further interactions on various occasions with the idol.

As her reverie abruptly dissolved, she found herself transfixed on Taeyong, who had already closed the distance and now stood mere inches away from her presence. Her heart pounded fervently within her chest, its rhythm resounding in her ears, as the sight of the idol before her intensified her emotions. With trepidation, yet undeniable eagerness, she mustered the words, "I would be thrilled to accompany you." A smirk played upon Taeyong's lips, hinting at the burgeoning desires that simmered within him, growing steadily stronger.

Taeyong graciously escorted the sasaeng to his vehicle, courteously opening the passenger-side door for her before proceeding to settle himself in the driver's seat. However, as the car journey commenced, an unsettling turn of events unfolded. Taeyong surreptitiously secured the doors, evoking a sense of entrapment. Suddenly, he swiftly covered the sasaeng's mouth with a handkerchief that had been tampered with a mysterious substance, inducing a gradual descent into unconsciousness.

As her vision dimmed and the world faded into obscurity, the sasaeng valiantly struggled to remove the cloth, her diminishing willpower waning. A haunting image imprinted upon her consciousness: Taeyong's unsettlingly luminous smile, hinting at enigmatic intentions.

Gradually, the sasaeng's consciousness returned, and a surge of anxiety coursed through her as her eyes flinched open, met with a dazzling array of bright lighting equipment aimed directly in her direction. As her awareness fully rekindled, she cautiously surveyed her surroundings, discovering herself ensconced amidst an array of recording equipment. To her dismay, she realized her limbs were securely bound to the chair she occupied, prompting a sense of urgency to escape her precarious predicament.

Just as she mustered the courage to make a frenzied attempt at freedom, her gaze caught sight of Taeyong's silhouette gracefully emerging from a distant hallway. Time seemed to momentarily halt as her gaze fixated on his approach, harboring uncertainty about his intentions and the imminent encounter that awaited her

CHAPTER 4: PLEASED TO MEET YOU

A smile adorned your face as you observed Taeyong's captivating presence on your phone screen. He just released his first music video after 3 years. His charm radiated brightly, surpassing any previous glow, even through the digital realm. However, you couldn't help but notice the stark contrast in his musical style and vibe compared to his time as a member of NCT 127. The current manifestation exuded a darker, more edgy aura.

As the melodic strains resonated, a peculiar addition caught your attention—a backdrop of distant screams harmonizing with the song. Surprisingly, rather than disturbing the experience, these eerie echoes blended seamlessly, enhancing the authenticity of the artistic vision. In fact, you found yourself personally drawn to Taeyong's newfound musical direction, appreciating the boldness and allure it exuded. Thus, you took a moment to express your approval by leaving a like under the video, acknowledging the captivating journey he had embarked upon.

And just as with many other K-pop idols, Taeyong embarked on tours, captivating fans both near and far with his awe-inspiring performances. His popularity soared to new heights after the release of his first full solo album, propelling him to become the center of widespread attention and admiration once more.

After hustling in you full-time job as a waitress, you secured a coveted VIP meet-up reservation with Taeyong following the announcement of his world tour. Being among the first to secure a spot was a stroke of luck, as the demand was immense, evident from the fact that all available slots were swiftly sold out. Taeyong's impact on the world had undeniably reached staggering proportions during this time.

Now, in the present moment, you find yourself in a taxi en route to the restaurant. However, a tide of uncertainty washes over you, causing a flicker of doubt to emerge. Despite your physical preparedness, a sense of apprehension clouds your mind. Taeyong's overwhelming success, remarkable handsomeness, and unparalleled talent have left you feeling somewhat intimidated. The prospect of meeting him suddenly renders you shy and hesitant to attend.

"Ma'am, we have arrived at your destination," the cab driver announces, interrupting your thoughts. Snapping back to reality, you express your gratitude with a soft smile directed at the driver, promptly offering a tip before stepping out of the vehicle.

Tentatively, you made your way into the restaurant, your lingering shyness still present from your contemplations. As you entered, a poised waitress gracefully approached you, her steps purposeful and her presence welcoming.

“Good afternoon, madam. Are you reserving a table?" inquired the waitress, her professional demeanor graced by a warm smile. "Ah, no, I'm here for a VIP meet-up with Taeyong," you replied, reciprocating her smile. Sensing the purpose of your visit, she requested your name, opening a journal awaiting your response. "Y/F/N," you promptly provided. The waitress scanned the pages, seeking your name among the entries. "Ah, Ms. Y/L/N! Welcome to the Vortex Lounge. Please follow me," she cordially invited, guiding you towards the VIP room.

As the waitress led the way, your mind couldn't help but wander, pondering the choice of a restaurant for this meet-and-greet event with Taeyong. Unlike other idols who typically only have a brief encounter with fans, this setting felt more akin to a romantic rendezvous than a traditional idol-to-fan gathering. The notion of a private date with the esteemed Lee Taeyong briefly flattered your imagination, although you remained acutely aware of its unlikelihood. Snapping out of your delusions, you refocused as the waitress halted in front of the VIP room.

"Enjoy your stay. Please refer to the order button on the table if you require anything," the waitress informed you, graciously opening the door. Expressing your gratitude, you bid your farewell to the waitress and stepped into the room, sensing the door gently closing behind you.

An inaudible gasp escaped your lips as your gaze fell upon the solitary figure of Taeyong seated at the table, his eyes fixed upon you as though he had eagerly awaited your arrival for an eternity.

Taeyong gracefully rose from his seat, extending a kind gesture as he pulled out a chair for you. "Please, have a seat," he invited, his smile exuding warmth and hospitality. Grateful for his courtesy, you settled into the chair, feeling a mixture of disbelief and elation as Taeyong resumed his place across from you. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Y/L/N. My name is Lee Taeyong," he introduced himself, his words laced with sincerity.

The reality of Taeyong's presence before you, no longer confined to a phone screen, seemed almost surreal. His physical allure surpassed even your wildest expectations, leaving you awestruck and feeling as if you were living a dream come true. It was as though your eyes were playing tricks on you, unable to fully grasp the extraordinary moment unfolding.

"Likewise, my name is Y/N," you managed to utter, your flustered state growing more apparent with each passing second. Taeyong responded with a gentle smile, attempting to alleviate your nervousness. "Please don't be anxious. I'm just like any other person, really," he reassured you, his politeness shining through. "Feel free to order anything you desire; it's my treat," he graciously continued.

The extraordinary level of fan service offered by Taeyong made you wonder if all the VIP holders were being treated to the same extent. This elevated experience surpassed all expectations, and you couldn't help but feel immensely fortunate to be among the privileged few granted such a remarkable opportunity.

You carefully perused the menu, deliberating over your choice. "A Carbonara will do," you finally decided, sharing your selection with Taeyong. His smile grew wider as he promptly pressed the button to place your order. Soon after, a waiter entered the VIP room to take Taeyong's order, greeting you both with a warm smile. "What can I get you today?" the waiter inquired. Taeyong responded graciously, "Just one serving of Carbonara for this beautiful woman, please." The waiter jotted down Taeyong's order before expressing their intention to bring it promptly. With the waiter's exit, Taeyong's gaze fixated on you once again.

Taeyong's compliment had left you completely flustered; his description of you as beautiful caught you off guard, rendering you momentarily speechless. Frozen in place, you struggled to find an appropriate response, your cheeks tinted with a deep blush. Sensing your flustered state, Taeyong chuckled softly, his amusement evident. Seeking to redirect the conversation and regain your composure, you changed the topic.

"Taeyong... We greatly appreciate your unwavering dedication, particularly in light of the challenges you've faced, including the accident. How are you holding up?" you inquired, earnestly seeking his perspective. Taeyong's expression softened as he responded, weaving a fabricated tale of personal struggle and trauma stemming from the incident. He wiped away his tears, emphasizing the profound impact of his bandmates' tragic passing and how it had left him grappling with profound emotional scars. In reality, he was deceiving you, his mind replaying the haunting screams of his bandmates as they met their agonizing fate.

Filled with remorse for broaching such a sensitive topic, you sincerely apologized to Taeyong, expressing your concern in a gentle tone. The weight of your words weighed heavily on your conscience, and in an effort to alleviate some of the discomfort, you swiftly reached into your bag, retrieving a handcrafted gift. With a warm smile, you extended it towards him, presenting a meticulously made jar adorned with an array of motivational letters nestled within.

"I hope this gift brings you solace during challenging times. Please accept it as a token of my support," you offered, your smile conveying genuine care and empathy. Taeyong's countenance softened further as he reciprocated your gesture, accepting the gift graciously.

In that moment, Taeyong found you endearing. Though your question had touched upon personal territory, he didn't mind sharing his feelings with you. Moreover, he couldn't help but notice the beauty of your voice, envisioning the possibility of incorporating your screams into his musical compositions. Little did you know, Taeyong had already marked you as his next prey, his twisted mind reveling in the prospect of capturing your terror.

TO BE CONTINUED…

A/N: I apologize for stopping early. I just wanted to see if anyone was still going to read ‘Lovesick’ after I halted the release for 2 years TT feel free to make suggestions for the fic <3

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yunalinwrites · 9 months ago

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kids on christmas eve | gojo satoru x reader

available on wattpad

cover by me

summary: you learn about what happened with geto suguru and make him talk to you about it

about reader: gender neutral, relationship to gojo is unclear but they're close, on a first name basis + implied to be romantic

warnings: sad (if i did my job right), mild cursing, spoilers for jjk 0 + gojo's past/hidden inventory/star plasma vessel arc

notes: i know this is really out of season bc christmas has long passed but its for the plot lol as u prob know dec 24th is an important date

anyways i prob could've edited more but tbh i just wanted to post it already lmao hope its not cringe cuz i didn't shower to finish it (avg jjk degenerate) also im angry this was correctly formatted in google docs but tumblr ruined it and i cant b bothered to reread it under the new formatting so srry if theres smth wrong

"Gojo-sensei, that's not fair!"

Itadori had his bottom lip stuck out, his arms crossed tightly and his feet stomping against the snow.

"Yeah, come on!" Kugisaki agreed, mitten-clad hands full of the cold ammunition. "Turn it off, will you?"

You looked over to where Satoru stood. The snowballs that floated around him made it a little hard to see, but you could still tell his face was like it always was: smiling, the only deviation from its usual state being the pink on his pale nose. The rosy shade was just like his tongue when he stuck it out.

"Come and make me," he taunted.

"Why, you little..." Kugisaki grumbled. "Okay, Itadori, Formation B!"

"Roger!" Itadori yelled back.

The pair performed a number of flashy poses--as if they were trying to imitate something they'd seen in a cartoon--and before you knew it, they were charging at Satoru from two sides, arms fully loaded and wound back with mounds of snow. But it seemed Satoru knew it before you, because he just tsked--didn't even bother catching the snowballs, just let them fall apart against his forcefield.

"Gojo-sensei!" the two groaned in unison.

"You're no fun!" Itadori complained.

"It's not supposed to be fun," Satoru countered with a playful shrug. "Just because it's a snow day doesn't mean you can stop training."

"But... but... But what about...!" Kugisaki sputtered, a vein popping out of her forehead as she struggled to come up with an argument. You could almost see the lightbulb pop up above her head as she pounded her fist in her palm. "But what about global warming?"

"Yeah!" Itadori followed, not thinking. "What about--Wait, what?" Scratching his head, he tilted his head at Kugisaki.

"It could totally be the last day it ever snows, you know," she claimed matter-of-factly, her hands on her hips. "And I would so hate you forever."

Itadori's mouth formed a silent "Oh!" as Kugisaki elaborated. Nodding his head in accord, he added on: "Yeah, Gojo-sensei. I don't think I could respect you after that."

Satoru put on a dramatic pout at that last sentence, but he soon returned to a smile and gave in with a sigh. "Alright, just this once."

You could see the two students loudly jumping for joy from behind him as he made his way towards where you were sitting. You smiled warmly at the sight.

"They really are something," you commented.

"Tell me about it," Fushiguro grumbled, leaning boredly against the wooden armrest of the park bench. He observed quietly as his friends built a snowman in the distance until Satoru's towering shadow prompted him to look up.

"Megumi!" Satoru called, his voice high-pitched and sing-song. "Go play with the others."

The boy scowled in response. "I'm too old for that stuff."

"You think you're old?" Satoru challenged. He pointed at his hair, at the white color it's always been. "What does that make me?" He hunched over and put his hand on his lower spine, feigning back pain. "C'mon, listen to your teacher. Let me sit next to Y/N."

Fushiguro squinted at him for a moment before finally getting up."Gross."

You chuckled, watching the boy begrudgingly drag his feet through the snow towards his classmates, but your laughter hitched as you felt something push against you. Turning to your right, you saw his lanky teacher. At first the sensation didn’t make sense, considering that there was a considerable amount of distance between the two of you, but you soon recalled his defense measures and the complaints they had garnered.

Not noticing your discomfort, he stared up at the cloudy sky for a moment before turning to you.

"Are you cold?" he asked.

You shook your head. "I should be asking you," you replied, referencing his lack of winter wear. "Why didn't you wear a coat?"

"Well, it would ruin my outfit, of course," he stated perkily. He wore a confident smirk on his face, but looking closer you could tell he was shivering beneath the thin fabric of his uniform.

Taking a deep breath in disapproval, you reached for your scarf. "Here," you offered, unraveling the knot you’d made earlier. But when you reached to wrap it around his neck, you felt the resistance of his invisible force.

His smile eased. "It's okay," he obliged, sniffling. "Thank you, though."

You hesitated before tying your scarf back around yourself, the garment's chunky knit giving it enough volume to nearly cover your mouth and even your ears, but you could still hear his teeth chatter. You searched your surroundings, looking past the dead snow-adorned trees and following the wet pavement until you spotted something in the distance: a cafe, just down the street from where you were.

"I'll get you some hot chocolate," you decided, standing up and brushing the snowflakes off your coat.

"You don't--"

"Shh!" You pointed your finger threateningly at him before turning around to begin your walk. "Somehow you've bent logic so far that you'll end up sick if you don't drink it. So just take this as an excuse to have more sweets, alright?"

You were just about to make your first step away from the bench, but then you felt a firm grip wrap around your arm. "Wait, Y/N--"

Before he could finish his protest, he was cut off by a particularly firmly packed snowball striking him right in the middle of his face, highlighting his nose with the sparkling white powder and dislodging his blindfold. With his cerulean eyes now exposed, he turned his head and saw the three of them: Itadori pointing and cackling on the left, Kugisaki doing the same keeled over in the middle, and even Fushiguro, on the right, had the ends of his mouth perked up as he shook his head hopelessly.

You saw Satoru grin at the picture, but it was contradictory to what you were feeling. He had let go of your arm, but not by relaxing his hand--you felt him, as if brick by brick, build that invisible wall right back up between you, seemingly stronger than ever. You could still feel it, even as he walked away towards the trio, tying his blindfold back on. Sighing, you sat back down and watched him make snow angels with the others, his head blending right in with the scene as he drowned himself in the blinding whiteness. With his blindfold now fully on, you could only imagine what it was like when he smiled with his eyes.

***

"I can't feel my toes."

Twirling her brown hair between her fingers, Shoko spun around in her chair to face the doorway.

She darted her eyes between you and Satoru for a second before a calm, amused expression painted her face. Despite knowing it was his voice she heard--though it was more nasal than usual--she directed her question at you: "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I told him to wear thicker socks!" you exclaimed, your arms crossed in frustration. "But look! Show her."

Rolling his eyes behind his blindfold, Satoru pulled the fabric on his thighs, lifting the hems of his pants so that they revealed his ankles. They were barely covered by the cheap red and green striped polyester; it was the kind of thing you'd spot on sale in packs at the checkouts during Christmas season.

“So I forgot… Big deal!”

“I could fill a library with all the things you forgot,’” you complained. “I mean, what are you, a fish?”

Unfazed, Shoko chuckled. "You're telling me the strongest--the one powerful enough to rival the King of Curses--was defeated by a case of frostbite?"

The both of you responded simultaneously: "Exactly." "No!"

"I was not defeated," he insisted, earning a glare from you. "Barely a scratch. She's just being dramatic."

"I am not--"

"Is there a reason you can't heal yourself?" Shoko interrupted, now turned to Satoru.

He pointed his thumb in your direction accusingly. "She wanted to come here, not me."

"Wait," you interjected. "You can heal yourself?”

“Of course, duh.”

“Since when?"

"High school," he answered dismissively, wiping his nose with his sleeve. "See, look!"

He pointed down to his shoes--through the leather of his dress boots, you could see the movement of his wriggling toes.

You held your hands up to hide his feet from your sight. “Ew, stop that--" you grimaced. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He shrugged, smirking smugly. "My talent should go without saying."

You sighed. “Your talent to bewilder me?”

"You know it,” he asserted proudly. "But anyways–Can I go now?"

Before you could even answer, you could sense him already moving in your peripheral vision.

"Satoru, wait--"

"If you don't believe I'm fine, I'll show you my toes," he threatened, halfway out the door.

"Satoru--!"

"Go on, catch me if you can!"

You listened, trying to grab onto him but, once again, his Infinity blocked you, making you stumble into Shoko's arms as it pushed you backwards. By the time you regained your balance and rushed into the hallway, his long strides and newly healed feet had already carried him beyond your sight.

You sighed and re-entered the room, brushing yourself off. "Do you have anything for a cold?" you asked.

"I should," Shoko replied, opening up one of her medicine cabinets. "Why, are you feeling okay?"

"Yeah, no, it's for him," you explained. "He's had a runny nose all week. I told him not to go out in the snow with the kids, but... You know how he is."

She hummed in acknowledgement with an understated smile, picking out a bottle of Acetaminophen capsules. Making her way over to you, she held up the container.

"I have these," she told you, but she didn't hand them to you; she just kept holding it up as she continued, "but, in my professional opinion, I don't think he has a cold."

"What do you mean?" you asked, your brow raised.

"Y/N, do you know what tomorrow is?"

"It's... the 24th."

"Mhm."

"So... Christmas Eve?"

She looked down at the floor, placing the bottle on a nearby counter and leaning back against it, getting comfortable. She stayed quiet for a moment, biting her lip in deep thought as she continued to stare at the floor with her arms crossed. But then, finally, she sighed, and reached into her coat pocket for a cigarette.

"Would you like one?" she offered, flicking the lighter at the end of the stick

"Um... No thank you..."

"Have a seat." She gestured to the metal seat against the wall.

Still thoroughly confused, you did as you were told. You felt as if your parents were about to have a stern "talk" with you--as if you had broken a vase or--arguably worse--it was time for you to understand the birds and the bees. That thought, along with the cold steel beneath you, sent chills up your body.

In an attempt to quell your anxiety, you beat her to the punch and spoke up: "You went to high school together, didn't you?"

She blew out a lengthy tangle of smoke strings. "That's right," she answered.

You shifted in your seat. "Has he always been... like this?"

"No,” she chuckled, bringing the cigarette back to her lips. "He used to wear glasses."

Your eyebrows shot up as you leaned forward in shock. "Seriously?"

She reached into her coat pocket again, this time producing a small print of a photo.

You took the glossy sheet from her hands and studied it, your mouth agape. Sure enough, there he was, on Shoko's right, smiling widely with his hair down and a pair of round sunglasses, both of them holding up peace signs. But, while Shoko's arm was clearly holding up the camera for the selfie, one of Satoru’s arms appeared to be wrapped around the shoulders of a black-haired man you didn't recognize.

Your brows furrowed at the sight. "Who's the one on the left?"

The scent of the nicotine got stronger as she took her time to ponder her answer, staring blankly into the back of the photo beneath your thumbs.

"That's Geto Suguru,” she finally told you.

You scanned his portrait meticulously. The man wore a grumpy expression with dark bags under his eyes and, contrary to the cheerful pose of the other two, he was flipping off the camera.

“Was he an upperclassman?” you asked.

She shook her head. “He was our classmate.” She gestured towards the photo with her cigarette. “We were all second-years there.”

“No way…” Holding the photo closer, you could have sworn you saw the outline of ear gauges behind Shoko’s head. “He looks so much older.”

You returned the photo to her and she slipped it back in her pocket, not taking even a glance at it as she did. She just spoke plainly: “He’s Satoru’s best friend.”

You tilted your head to the side. “Really? I wonder why I haven’t heard of him, then."

She took another puff, turning her face away from you as she let it out. “Tomorrow is his death anniversary.”

Your eyes widened before falling to the floor. “Oh… I see…”

You fell into a solemn trance, not knowing what you should or shouldn’t say and, consequently, opting to stay quiet out of respect. But, suddenly, you were interrupted by the sound of light laughter.

“Even if he were still with us, I doubt you would’ve been able to tell. They bickered so much you’d think they hated each other.”

She walked around to the other side of the counter, leaning forward on it as she rested her hand on her palm.

“Who could get to class faster… Who could shoot more hoops in a minute… Who could make a bigger crater in the courtyard…”

You tried to imagine the pair wreaking havoc on an older version of the Jujutsu Tech Campus, but while it was easy to fit Satoru’s cheeky grin into all of these scenarios, it was hard to see such a mature-looking person as Geto doing these childish things.

“Ah, but you know, Y/N,” she started, looking up at you with a smile. “I think you would have been able to tell that Suguru was actually younger.”

“What?” you gasped, surprised at both the fact that he was younger and that Shoko thought that would be clear to you. “There’s no way…”

“Well, for starters, Suguru is shorter, if you put them side-by-side,” she argued. “And… Hm…”

She stopped to contemplate how to put together her next sentence–or if she should even do so at all. But in the end, she brought her cigarette back to her lips and exhaled: “I think you would have agreed with me that he’s the more immature one.”

Your brows furrowed as you scoffed in disbelief. “That's impossible… Satoru could be ten-feet tall and not a single thing on this planet could make him seem more mature than another person.”

She chuckled, though you could sense a sadness behind the sound, and you realized that your comment might’ve come off as insensitive. Clearing your throat, awkwardly, you granted her the floor: “What makes you say that?”

She took another inhale and sighed out a long cloud. Looking out the window of her office, she saw the faint glow of the multicolored lights that decorated it on the outside. She took in the sight for a quiet moment before sinking into her swivel chair, puffing once more.

“I still don’t know much about his childhood,” she began. “I never asked, and I never got to meet his parents. But I can tell you for certain that Suguru was the sort of kid who threw a tantrum when he didn’t get what he wanted for Christmas.

“I’m sure he had wishlists a mile long, but he wouldn’t be the kind to write even a single letter about it to Santa. Of course, that’d make it difficult for his family, and maybe they could've tried harder to figure it out–but he just wouldn't understand why what he wanted wasn't obvious to everyone.

“I can imagine one day someone told him the truth about Santa, and he was probably absolutely devastated. But, to him, it wouldn't be about the presents. It would be about the people around him: his mom, his dad, his teachers, his neighbors, everyone–the people who had been deceiving him his whole life.

“I don't think he ever forgave anyone for that, all the way up until he found himself as a seventeen-year-old at Jujutsu High.”

The air became thick–suffocatingly so–and your spine no longer fit right against the back of the bench.

“What exactly… did he do?”

She rolled her chair towards her desk and put out her cigarette, pushing and twisting it into the ashtray by her desk calendar.

“In a single night, he killed one hundred and twelve civilians–non-sorcerers–including his parents. He wanted to create a world where only sorcerers exist.”

“O-oh my God…” Your hand rose up to cover your gaping mouth. “Wh.. Why?!”

“By killing non-sorcerers, you stop curses from the source.”

“But you can't just–” You cut yourself off, thousands of words rushing and racing to your mouth. “Didn't anyone try to stop him?”

“Maybe Satoru could've. If Suguru decided to tell him, that is.”

Your face was wound up in concern. “That's horrible…”

“I know, right?” she casually agreed. “To want to be understood, but never willing to understand… Isn't it childish?” She even laughed. “Though, I suppose he was just a kid.”

“Just a kid?!” You stuck your head out in disbelief. “No, no… Satoru is childish. But that–that’s… inhumane!

You pointed to the door. “Satoru was a kid.”

You pointed to her. “You were a kid.”

Lowering your hand, you scrunched the hem of your shirt. “I might not have known you then, but I know you never would have done that.”

“To be fair, I'm not the strongest,” she defended plainly. “I'm just a doctor.”

The crease between your eyebrows deepened as you threw your arms up. “Okay–then Satoru! Satoru would never do something like that! And he… he's still a kid!”

“Satoru killed his best friend–his one and only.” She clasped her hands together on her desk. “A kid wouldn't do that, would they?”

You froze at the edge of your seat, blinking rapidly as you pieced together the puzzle.

“He… killed…?” you trailed off.

Shoko stared grimly at her hands as she tightened her grip on herself. “A kid wouldn’t have understood.”

You bore your eyes into her, waiting, begging for her to continue, to elaborate, to make it make sense, but she just stayed quiet, kept to herself.

You directed your eyes to the freshly polished floor tiles. As you stared into the blurry reflection of yourself, you tried imagining it again: Satoru, tall and white haired, and this kid grumpy little kid he called Suguru, wreaking havoc on the old campus of Jujutsu High: walking to class together, dribbling a basketball between each other, meeting up in the courtyard with one another.

“That…” you began hesitantly. “That still doesn't excuse what happened.”

Shoko looked up at you, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, and though she wasn’t as contented as she had been before your conversation, her expression was no longer grave; she seemed satisfied. Slowly, she put her palms on her desk and pushed herself up from her seat.

“To answer your question from earlier–properly,” she started, making her way over to you. “I think that Satoru has always been that way–the way Gojo Satoru has to be.”

“But if there were ever a time that he weren’t,” she interjected, sliding her hand into her coat pocket.

“It would have been thanks to him.”

***

Your footsteps echoed down the empty hallway, stopping every once in a while to slide open one of the stiff doors only to struggle to shut it a moment later. You increased the reach of your steps, and the thump of your shoes against the wood planks competed with the hooting owl perched on the snow covered roof.

Suddenly, you heard a new noise: a honking, like that of a goose, coming from the end of the hall and slightly to the left. Now picking up to a jog, you made a beeline for the door and jerked it open.

“Well, if it isn’t my long-awaited Christmas present!” he exclaimed. “Looks like Santa’s early this year.”

He rested against the corner of one of the student’s desks, already facing you with his hands in his pocket. From behind him, you could just barely see the white crumpled-up balls of tissue that scattered the surface.

“I guess some people do gifts on Christmas Eve though, right?” he considered, putting a finger to his chin. “But, ah… choosing gifts is so hard. I need all the time I can get.”

He didn’t acknowledge your entrance at all; his Six Eyes had seen it coming miles away, allowing him enough time to get into position to pick up wherever you’d last left off. You didn’t acknowledge him either, keeping a stone face as you stepped into the room.

“What’s with the face, hm? Did you not like your presents?”

“Satoru,” you said sternly.

“Did you ask Santa for anything this year?” he went on, continuing to pay you no mind.

You sighed. You couldn’t help but let the ends of your lips pick up, but you kept your eyes down at the dirtied pattern of the floor.

“I don’t celebrate Christmas,” you admit.

“What? Why not?” he questioned astonishedly, forming a pout. “Does that mean you didn’t get me a present?”

You shook your head lightly, making your way over to him. “I’ve always thought it was sort of weird. To celebrate the birth of a martyr.”

“Hm,” he sounded. “Well that’s no fun.”

Planting his hands on the surface, he hoisted himself up onto his desk. “Santa probably wouldn’t give anything other than coal to a non-believer,” he noted. “But since I’m so nice, I’ll get you something. Just tell me–what is it that you want for Christmas?”

His smile stayed in place as you darted your pupils around his visage, your own face beginning to fall. You took slow steps towards the desk next to him, getting as close as you could before you felt his Infinity push back

“Satoru, can you do me a favor?” you requested gently.

“Depends on what the favor is,” he chirped back.

Reaching your hand out, you traced your forefinger on the edge of the invisible barrier before applying pressure into it, testing the shield’s strength. You pushed with all your might, but all it did was whiten your finger tip and make your knuckles concave.

You retracted, looking back into his eyes. “Can you take it down?”

You could see the movement of his eyebrows raising beneath his blindfold. “You tryna kill me?”

Again, you shook your head, still solemn.

He crossed his arms and squinted at you, biting his cheek. Leaning back, he put his weight onto his hands behind him, loosely grabbing the edge of his desk, his expression becoming relaxed. “Alright. Here you go.”

You took another small step into the newfound space until you were only inches apart. Slowly, you extended both your hands towards his face, but then suddenly reeled them back into a hesitant fist in disbelief, the lack of resistance uncomfortably foreign.

You inhaled deeply through your nose and exhaled the air shakily through your mouth, trying hard to slow the rapid beating in your chest. Ignoring the smirk on his face, you tried to reach out to him, one final time.

Letting your arms wrap around his head, your hands searched his silky hair for the knot that held up his eye covering. When you finally felt the bump, you took your time digging your nails into where the fabric held onto itself, carefully pulling apart its loops.

As the blindfold fell to his neckline, his signature grin stayed plastered on his face, but just about every other feature of his seemed to change completely when the white wisps came down to frame them. His azure eyes, for example, glimmered under the faint moonlight coming through the window, but not in the way that they usually did. They were shining like lacquer, but it was as if, from underneath that, their batteries had been taken out. In their dullness, you could see the reflection of the long white lashes resting on the eyelids above, forming sharp, unnatural shapes as they clumped together unevenly. Pink waterlines painted the bottom of his irises, and a faint red was seemingly airbrushed around the surrounding puffy skin.

You trailed your hands down the back of his head until they cupped his jawline, holding his face as you explored its entirety. Moving from his eyes to his flushed, leaking nose, his smirk grew when your gaze landed on his lips.

“Are you sure you want to use your gift on this?” he teased. “Kind of a waste, in my opinion–you could’ve just found a mistletoe.”

“Satoru.”

“Hmm?”

“I want you to stop smiling.”

For a moment, he listened to you: his mouth fell open, but then it fell back into its previous position as he flashed his teeth at you. “My bad. I didn’t mean to blind you.”

“Please?”

He kept still while your thumb gently stroked his powder-smooth cheek. He jolted slightly as his lungs forced out a nervous chuckle, but he trailed off as your touch continued on him. Realizing your relentlessness, he sucked in his lips and clamped them together with his teeth as if he was trying to stop any further laughter.

He stayed like this for a moment, waiting for you to let go, but your tender movements showed no signs of stopping–you only slowed down when your eyes flitted up to meet his. He tried his best to return your stare, but eventually, he accepted defeat in the contest. And so, little by little, he let his lips roll out and the muscles to dispose into a resting state.

His voice became low, a near whisper. “Is… everything okay?”

Finally removing your hands from him, you nodded. Returning them to yourself, you glided one into the back pocket of your pants.

Taking a step back, you held up the sheet of glossy photo paper side-by-side with his face. You could name a number of differences: the neckline of the teacher’s uniform was looser and higher, his bangs now were longer and a bit thicker, and, of course, he wasn’t wearing glasses, and he wasn’t smiling. But, somehow, now more than ever, you could see the resemblance.

“What have you got there?”

Moving towards him again, you handed him the photo. It felt strange, witnessing the rare sight of his pupils’ every rapid move. And in addition to that, ever so slightly, you could see his swollen under eyes rise as the softest of smiles pushed up his cheeks. It was nothing like the sickeningly-sweet beamings you were used to seeing from him, though; it was subdued, raw like the cacao in dark chocolate, undiluted by sugar or milk.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, incredulous.

“Like you said, Santa came early,” you joked mildly.

“No, really,” he persisted, his tone reaching a bass you’d never heard from him before. “Where did you get this?”

You sat yourself on the desk next to him. “Shoko,” you admitted.

“What did she tell you?”

Your shrug was subtle. “As much as she could.”

He continued to scrutinize the photo in his hands, his brows drawing together.

“Satoru,” you proceeded, hushed. “If it’s okay… I’d like it if you told me about it.”

He lowered the photo so that it no longer obstructed his view of you, but he didn’t take advantage of the space he gave himself; he kept staring at the photo as he spoke: “There’s not much to tell about. I was the strongest then and I’m the strongest now.”

You rested your hands on your lap and exhaled deeply. “That’s not what I mean,” you contested.

It was as if he couldn’t hear you, continuing to stare vapidly into the photo as if somehow your sentence didn’t make it to his ears. But that was impossible; you’d said what you said, and the room was dead silent.

“I… I want you to tell me about him,” you clarified.

He shifted in his seat, finally looking away from the photo and up at you. “You mean… Geto Suguru?” he asked, as if there were any other ‘him’ in that photo.

“Well… he’s the worst of all curse users,” he offered. He then shoved the photo back in your direction, a sudden grin straining itself on his face. “But it’s okay. He’s gone now.”

Ignoring his move, you asked, “Is it really okay?”

“I made sure of it,” he affirmed, impatiently nudging the paper at you.

He resumed his usual playful lilt. “Are you doubting me?” he tested.

“I don’t doubt you for a second–not in that sense. You’ve always been strong,” you reassured him. “But that’s exactly why I doubt you know how to be weak.”

He scoffed. “You think Gojo Satoru would know how to be weak?”

“No, I don’t. That’s my whole point,” you upheld firmly.

He folded his arms across his chest, his mocking tone sharpening: “Why would anyone want to know how to be weak?”

“Because even Gojo Satoru needs to realize he can’t just smile and laugh all the time,” you challenged, feeling heat rise up your neck.

His eyes darkened, seemingly into a navy blue, and his inflection further condescended: “There are a lot of things you don’t understand.”

“Satoru, how on earth am I supposed to understand?!”

As your tone cut through, just as abruptly you pushed the desk behind you and dropped heavily to your feet.

“You’re right, I don't understand you,” you confessed frustratedly, pointing to yourself. “I don’t understand you at all. Because how could I possibly understand you? I can’t see your eyes, I can’t even get near you, and I’ve never seen you not smile.”

Your voice made gaps as your vocal cords threatened sobs. “And sure, I call you by your first name, and I laugh and I smile at all your dumb jokes and… and the idiotic games you play…

“But it’s–it’s… scary, Satoru. Creepy, even. How you know just about everything there is to know about me and yet… It's like I don’t even know who you are. You’re just a toy in the corner, watching everyone come in and out of the room, but I can never make you say or be or feel anything.”

“Feelings are what made him into who he was,” he stated coldly, his eyes fixed on the grimy floor. “It’s important for sorcerers to have a hold on their emotions.”

“So you know what happens, then,” you argued firmly, your shoes coming into his view as you stepped closer. “You know what it’s like to be shut out from them.”

You pushed his chin up, forcing him to witness the way you were holding on desperately to the tears that bordered your lower waterline.

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Do you always get Sprite?” he’d asked, looking down as his friend retrieved his drink from the bottom of the machine.

“I mean… yeah, I guess,” Suguru replied plainly. “Why?”

A pit formed in his stomach as he heard the crack of the can opening.

“Shit. I’ve been getting you Coke this whole time,” he’d mumbled. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Suguru shrugged, beginning to head in the direction of the classroom. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Dude, are you good?”

Suguru jolted awake, sitting up from the plush back of the couch and nearly spilling the bowl of popcorn in his lap.

“Do you wanna watch something else?” he’d suggested, but Suguru just shook his head.

“I thought you liked Digimon,” Suguru objected.

“Well yeah, but…”

The only lighting came from the flashing screen, but it was enough for him to see his friend yawn, making his eyes water, dark bags underneath them.

“You can turn it up if you want,” was all Suguru had to say, but even after doing what Suguru said, he couldn’t focus on his favorite TV show.

“I know you said you didn’t want anything,” he started, reaching into his bag. “But here.”

“What’s this?” Suguru questioned.

“Your Christmas present, duh.”

“But it’s Christmas Eve,” Suguru pointed out. “And I told you–”

“I know! But just open it.”

He watched as Suguru lifted the lid of the small gray box, revealing a small pair of white gauges.

“I didn’t really know what size to get… But I think they’d look cool on you.”

“Thanks, Satoru.”

He lit up, thinking that he’d finally done something right by his friend, but the way that Suguru looked up at him, the way Suguru smiled insincerely, told him he should’ve waited for Christmas Day.

The tears were warm as they rolled down his face, past his trembling lip and blooming into the blindfold that rested loosely around his neck.

“I just don't understand why he didn’t talk to me.”

You pulled him into a hug, carding your fingers in his hair as you rested his head on your shoulder.

“He thought I hated him,” he told you shakily, finding himself clutching onto your shirt. “I didn’t see him for ten years and… and that whole time he thought I hated him.”

He inhaled a sharp sniffle. “I… I don’t hate him,” he whimpered, his pitch jumping and his body beginning to tremble. “I don’t hate him, Y/N, I don’t, I don’t, I never, ever did.”

“I know,” you whispered, stroking his hair, holding him tighter as he jerked with sobs.

He placed his head on your shoulder, staring at the blindfold that had unraveled itself and fallen between you. “I hate myself.”

You pulled back, cupping his jawline and holding it in front of you.

“Don’t say that…”

“But he was my best friend, Y/N,” he insisted, gripping desperately onto your shoulders. “I saw him every single day… every single day, all of that was running through his head and I… I didn’t even know… I just watched and… and I made him think I hated him. I was supposed to be his best friend.”

“You did everything you could, Satoru.”

“It was all my fault.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why did it happen?” he whined. “It had to have been for a reason–It can't just hurt and be for no reason. That wouldn’t be fair.”

“It’s not,” you told him, shaking your head gently and looking deeply into his eyes. “It’s not fair at all.”

Indicating the breaking of a dam, a deafening, siren-like wail pierced the air. His face was red and scrunched up, his nose was dripping with snot, and his hands were coming up to swipe desperately at the tears on his cheeks.

You pulled him close to you again as he kept hiccuping and sniffling into the crook of your neck. His loud weeping wet your shirt with both the fluids from his eyes and nose, but you didn’t care; you just rubbed his back, caressing him tenderly.

His voice was suddenly clearer as he took deep breaths to try and recuperate himself: “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“Why are you sorry?” you asked, stiffening your hold on him.

“I just… I don’t know. I hate crying. I’m not a kid anymore, you know?” he tried laughing.

“Satoru,” you whispered delicately, turning your head so your words rested right by his ear. “You were never a kid.”

Gently, you pressed his head into you, stopping him from moving his lips in any way. “I want you to be one right now.”

You let him stay in your arms for a while until his tears subsided and his breathing steadied. You had moved to the floor at some point, allowing him to comfortably lean on you as you embraced him, his previous quivering replaced now by the calm rhythm of his rising and falling figure.

He hadn’t talked in a while, so you assumed he’d fallen asleep, but then, among his mellow breathing, a mumble came up right by your ear:

“Thank you,” he’d said.

Hugging him tighter, you patted him on the back softly. “Of course.”

As one hand traveled to intertwine its fingers in his hair, you reached for your phone with your other one.

You pressed the power button on its side, and flinched backward, squinting at the brightness your phone screen emitted. Despite your sudden movement, Satoru didn’t show any sort of reaction; he’d fallen asleep, for sure now.

You continued to comb through his white locks, a little more consciously now, as you made note of the time and date your phone’s clock displayed, changing right before your eyes:

December 25th, 00:00

You smiled, dragging your coat up to cover the both of you as you laid your head on his shoulder.

“Merry Christmas, Satoru.”

***

might do a toji x megumi's teacher reader if u wanna follow

#jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujustsu kaisen x reader #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo satoru #satoru gojo

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korpuskat · 1 year ago

Text

Eleven Years - Ch2

[Ao3 Mirror] Pairing: Ramattra/Reader (Gender Neutral) Rating: T (this chapter, Explicit future chapters) WC: 1,464 Warnings: Kidnapping; Stockholm Syndrome, imprisonment, isolation, manipulation, future extreme dubcon, & mind break.

[Chapter 1]

He doesn’t stay long the first day. Shock had settled deep into your mind and whatever warm, lingering questions that flittered hopefully from his synth are met only with the cold, numb ice block of your psyche. Nothing comes in, nothing comes out. Even the last fleeting touch of the backs of his fingers to your face are lost to you.

Ramattra was here. He was the one waging a global war, imprisoning his own kind… imprisoning you. It doesn’t make any sense. Perhaps he was always more guarded than the other monks you had met, more vocal about the mistreatment omnics faced, but it had always been balanced out by compassion, a drive to help his brethren and provide a safe haven for them.

This…? Nobody would be safe at the end of this. All he’ll do is make humans distrust omnics all over, give them one more excuse. And whatever he’s doing to the omnics you saw online? The ones with strange helmets, surrounded by big, panicked posts warning all omnics to run... You don’t want to believe he’s set out to hurt them, but you don’t want to believe much of what you’ve seen, either.

When he’s gone, you curl up on the bed, your back to the door. No tears come.

When the door opens again- you shuffle off the far side of the bed. There’s nowhere to run, but it doesn’t stop you from getting as far from him as you can. Even if it’s on the floor, tangled in the comforter that fell with you- shooting daggers at him as viciously as you can.

Ramattra’s expression cannot change, but he hesitates as the door lowers into place again. He aches to see such hatred on your features, but there’s no going back. He’s suffered and can withstand the pain of this, too, for your sake. Besides, he can’t blame you. It’s taken him years and a global journey to see what must truly be done- being dropped into the middle of it is a jarring experience, he’s sure. You just need some time and patience- he’s happy to give you both and more.

“I brought you tea.”

Your eyes lower from his faceplate. Sure enough, a plain black mug looks comically small, cradled in his two large hands. Steam curls from the top- and the scent of warm spices wafts to you. Cinnamon and cardamom wash over you- rage and grief rising to meet it. How dare he-

“I remembered,” He says as he slides onto the bed. The frame doesn’t even creak, doesn’t whine at a quarter of his weight like the one you had in Nepal. You’d ended up getting rid of it, leaving your mattress on the floor, smothered in pillows and blankets to make it comfortable, just so he could sit with you and- “In Annapurna, the tea you bought. You wanted Manish to stock it.”

The owner, back at the store. You'd forgotten his name. He was stubborn, probably sensible. The workmen won’t drink that. He’d argued, too fancy for them. Anyone bull-headed enough to move to a town below an omnic monastery and then complain about the bots wouldn’t give a shit about spiced tea. No, it was your tea, the one you’d travel to get, only sold by the vendor there in Annapurna. You liked her, she had real passion about what she made.

Ramattra moves slowly, keeps most of his weight planted on the far corner of the bed from you. He leans over and leaves the mug on the nightstand closest to you. Still, you shuffle further away, down past the foot of the bed, not stopping until your back is pressed to the far wall. As much distance as you can get.

If it hurts him, he doesn’t let it show. He just sits, waits, watches you from across the room, his hands settled into his lap. It’s weird, seeing this much of him- he’d been so nervous the first time he’d shed his robes in front of you, just for you to inspect the damage to his side. An old scar from a fight you hadn’t seen.

That damage is gone now, repaired, leaving only shiny, imposing bars of armor.

“Are you hungry? I can bring you dinner.”

Your glare turns sharp again, softened with the memory. You don’t want his gifts, his pleas for forgiveness for what he’s done. Playing on your feelings like that… Even if he cared enough to remember, to use it now when he’s stolen you away from your own life? It sickens you.

After a moment Ramattra nods softly. “Perhaps later, then.” He stands, hands clasped together in front of him. And he looks at you, tips his head, raises his shoulders as though he’s going to speak again- but thinks better of it. He leaves- and the room is quieter without the hum of his inner workings.

You hadn’t even thought of them in so long, the actual noise of it.

On sleepless nights you’d open up an old laptop you’d bought ages back, utterly obsolete in every way. The slightest pressure on its CPU and its fan would spin loud and hard. You couldn’t remember what he sounded like exactly- but it was close enough to let you sleep. The laptop was too high pitched you know now, the singular fan too small, the vent too open. Ramattra was a deep hum, no whistling air, all complicated ventilation and self-regulation.

You pull your knees up to your chest, press your face into them, and cry.

You don’t know how long you spend staring at the mug. Conveniently, your room does not have a single clock- no way to know how long you’ve been here. No windows to tell day from night, the lights don’t even dim to simulate it.

But it feels much longer than later. Because you cried until your eyes were sore and then cried more, and when you had no tears left you stayed there, curled up in a ball and wishing you’d died to his bots before he could find you. Restlessness drove you to stand and something else made you sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the black ceramic.

You lift your hand, but hesitate to even touch your side. As though that alone would be a slight against yourself. But the mug and its contents have gone cool. The only indication of time at all.

The corners of your eyes, your nose, your throat all itch. It’s thirst that’s brought you to sit down here.

You don’t have to drink it. There’s a bathroom, a sink- and you doubt he’s planned all this just to forget running water. You could dump it- you want to-

But when your fingers curl around the handle, they shake. Even cold, the spices bring forth memories from better times. You didn’t know it then- can never know, can you?- when it’s the good times you’ll look back on later. He wasn’t perfect, far from it, but you were content, more or less.

Unhappy enough to leave him.

Happy enough to wish, years later, that you hadn’t.

Couldn’t you have put aside your complaints about his anxieties or learned to live with them? Could you have put away your own insecurities and just believed him when he told you he was afraid? The questions have plagued you on those nights you’re alone in the dark. You were so young, so stupid. Why couldn’t you have been happy with what you had? The thought makes you sour, because how dare you have wants and needs beyond what he could give you.

It’s the same circle you’ve been treading down for years. Round and round, you should’ve stayed, he was good to you, you were right to leave, he wasn’t ready for a relationship.

It had been safe to dream about him, about the time you’d been together because it was all fantasy. In all likelihood you were never going to see him again, never get a chance to find out if you had made the correct choice. In the safety of your mind he’d become a beacon when the harsh realities of life had closed in- when yet another disappointment left you more jaded.

It doesn’t feel so safe anymore, staring down into the dark liquid. You spent years seeking his imaginary comforts, wishing that he would bring you tea on the hard days, just like this. Your lip wobbles, another wave of tears building behind your eyes.

The tea is cold on your tongue, but its spices are still warm and vibrant and make you think of red and orange blankets, of machine oil, of his hand so delicately on the small of your back.

[Chapter 3]

#ramattra #ramattra x reader #overwatch x reader #kidnapping #yandere #ramattra kidnapping au

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