#why do you have to lie and make up another one

[evansbby]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: dark!Steve Rogers x reader

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: EXTREMELY HEAVY SUBJECT MATTER, heavy depictions of domestic violence, physical and verbal abuse, NON CON, smutt, major angst, rough, breeding kink, dirty talk, mean Steve, housewife kink, domesticity kink, victim-blaming, manipulation, self-deprecating thoughts, self-blame.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Steve was always a great husband. Until he wasn't.

𝐀/𝐍: SUPER DARK. Very angsty. Very heavy subject matter. This fic explores domestic violence. This fic can be triggering so please read warnings beforehand and please do not read unless you have read them.

“Sweetie, come downstairs.”

Steve only has to say it once and it’s enough for you to drop whatever you’re doing and follow wherever his voice is calling you. On this occasion, you switch off the iron and set it aside before straightening your dress and scurrying down to greet your husband.

“I’m sorry, I got wrapped up in my chores,” you explain, helping him take his jacket off before he wraps one strong arm around your waist and pulls you into him. Gosh, he was so big and strong! Steve’s physique always made you nervous and skittish – but in a good way, mostly. Carefully, you link your arms around his neck, reaching up on your tiptoes to give him a kiss.

“You’re still learning,” Steve says after a long, lingering kiss to your lips followed by several small pecks that make you smile. “I don’t expect you to know everything straight off the bat. But for every rule missed, you must repeat it back to me.” His hand slips down to cup your ass through the thin material of your dress, and he gives it a firm squeeze as if to prompt you. “So, what’s the rule, baby?”

“That a good housewife always greets her husband at the door when he gets home from work.” You recite it dutifully, because by now you know all the rules by heart. Steve had made you learn them before you’d got married. You remember the long days of sitting in his lap and repeating each rule after him, and you also remember the soreness of your ass each time you got it wrong.

You never got them wrong anymore.

“Good girl,” Steve praises and you glow. You take his tie off for him, all the while asking him questions about his day. How work was, if anything special happened, if he was hungry. (Of course he was hungry, you knew Steve had a voracious appetite for both food and… other things.) He could eat enough for three men in one sitting – which was probably why he was so big and strong and imposing. And scary. Well, you were definitely scared of him. Sometimes. But you try not to think about that.

“This looks great, sweetheart,” Steve sits down on his place at the head of the table and pulls you into his lap. That was another thing about Steve, another one of his rules. He preferred you in his lap instead of in your own seat – at the dinner table, on the couch, anywhere. Even in the presence of other people, which embarrassed you sometimes but you’d never tell him that. It was one of his rules, and that meant it had to be obeyed, no questions asked.

“Thank you, Steve. I tried really hard to make all your favourites.”

He feeds you and himself at the same time, and now it’s his turn to ask you questions.

“Oh, my day was pretty boring,” you accept the bite of chicken pot pie he feeds you, chewing thoughtfully and trying your best to ignore the way your heart starts pitter-pattering harder. “I did all the chores I was supposed to do, and then I did some shopping. I got us some pretty new bedsheets.”

“That’s nice, sweetie. Did you buy anything for yourself?”

“No. I just came straight home after that, and…” Your voice trails off, and you hope your increased heartrate and clammy palms aren’t showing in your face.

“And what?” Steve blinks, those angelic blue eyes looking at you expectantly.

You shouldn’t lie to him. He was your husband. And it was one of his main rules, after all – you weren’t allowed to lie. And it wasn’t like you’d done anything wrong…

“Well…”

The change in his demeanour is subtle, but it doesn’t escape you how he grabs your arm, his finger stroking against your bare skin as a deathly silence falls over the room, as if he’s awaiting your next words with careful patience.

You shuffle on his lap. Oh, why didn’t you just spit it out the moment he’d come home!? Now he’d think you’d deliberately kept it from him until he’d asked, and-

You take a deep breath, “Th-The car broke down on the way back.”

Silence. You dare to peak up at his eyes to see them impassive, waiting for you to continue. He gently sets the fork down beside his plate, an unreadable expression on his face that does nothing to calm your nerves.

“I don’t know what happened, but it broke down and it wouldn’t move and I…”  

“Why didn’t you call me?”

It’s a toneless question, any warmth he’d possessed earlier now gone, and it makes you start shaking even more.

“I tr-tried but there was no service, and I knew you’d be busy, and… and… I’m sorry, Steve, I know I should have called you. I know I’m meant to call you when stuff like this happens, but in that moment I–”

“How did you get home?”

Another question. His voice flat, but the grip on your arm tighter than ever. You gulp.

“L-Luckily there was someone passing by, and they said their auto-repair shop was only five minutes away, and–”

“They?”

Your hands are shaking uncontrollably now, and you clasp them in your lap in a bid to get them to still. Your breathing grows more rapid, you can feel your palms grow sweatier as you squirm under your husband’s deathly calm gaze. You’re too afraid to look directly at him, but you know he’s expecting an answer. For a split second, you consider lying. But the consequences of that notion have you spitting out the truth before you can think about it any further.

“H-He.”

Steve goes deathly still. You hear him inhale sharply, his body tensing up even more underneath you. A part of you wants to burst into tears and run, run, run! But fear has you rooted in place, and even if it didn’t, he’s got a firm grasp on you, and you could never, ever overpower him.

“You got into a car with another man.”

He doesn’t even pose it as a question. No, the words leave Steve’s mouth in a statement of contempt and accusation. Except his tone is still so levelled, so dangerously low and contained.

“N-No! No, Steve, no! He offered to tow the car, and take it back to his repair shop. H-He was fixing it, Steve! And I swear I was only there for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes! I promise, and then I came straight home!” You’re tripping over your words, trying to get your explanation out. The explanation you’d subconsciously been rehearsing in your head all day because you knew it would come to this. You knew the moment that friendly stranger had tapped on your car window and offered his help. But what else could you have done in that moment?

“Steve, I know I should’ve called you the moment I had service, but I –”

“–But you were too busy with the mechanic.”

“No, no, Stevie, it’s not like that at all!” In hopeless desperation for this not to end badly, you bravely lock eyes with him, cupping his face in your hands, “I just didn’t want to bother you, I knew you had an important meeting around that time.” And I was also too scared to call.

His grip on your arm steadily tightens, till you can feel his fingers digging into your flesh. And you can see the vein in his forehead, the way his face is flushed red, the way he’s clenching his jaw, the way his eyes look so dark.

You wince, “S-Steve, please, you’re hurting me.”

“What did you do?”

“H-Huh?”

“In those fifteen, twenty minutes you were at his shop. When you should have been calling or texting me. What did you do?” Steve grips your chin, his thumb and forefinger pressing painfully down on your skin as he makes you look up at him. His expression is unreadable, his tone still low, but you can see that vein pulsing in his forehead. You know what it means.

“Nothing, I promise! I just sat in the waiting area, and…and there was no service, and–”

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not, I swear I'm not, I-"

“You were fucking him.”

The accusation drops like a pin, except it feels more like a car crashing straight into your heart. You feel everything; hurt, panic, but most of all – fear.

And Steve’s eyes are so, so dark, and his words so matter-of-fact. He’s still got a death-grip on you, holding you firmly in his lap while you start shaking violently. Oh no, no, no, no… How could you persuade him that you hadn’t done that? How you could never do that?!

“No, Stevie, I would never! I t-told you, he was fixing the car, I barely spoke to him, I–”

“You fucked him. In the car that I bought for you. And then you thought you could keep it a secret from me.”

He isn’t hearing you. No, he’s going to that place. That place where his eyes turn black and his expression goes all far away, and his anger consumes him to the point where rationality goes completely out the window. And you’d give anything to not be dragged down into his dark place, where your pleas reach deaf ears, where your tears and screams don’t mean a single thing. Well, not until it’s all over.

“I didn’t, Steve, please believe me. I would never cheat on you, never ever. Please, you’re hurting me!”

His fingers clamp down on your upper arm so hard, you know they’ll leave a mark. Another one you’ll have to hide with a meticulous makeup routine and carefully selected clothes.

It takes all your strength to pry his hands off you, and you jump off his lap like a hot poker, slowly backing away as dread fills up your stomach. Dread that increases tenfold the moment he stands up too, up to his full height that makes you cower in total, utter fear.

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” his tone is hard now, louder, more biting, and your eyes zero in on his hands as they curl into fists at his side. “Do you think I was born yesterday?”

You continue backing away slowly, acutely aware that he’s stepping forward each time you take a step back. And like clockwork, you know how this goes. Soon your back would meet the wall, and then… Your eyes dart up behind him, up the stairs… Maybe, if you could get to the bedroom in time, perhaps lock the door?

“ANSWER ME!”

You jump, “No, Steve, I don’t! B-But I’m telling the truth. I barely spoke two words to the man, all I did was wait while he fixed the car. Please believe me,” your voice drops down to a broken whisper, “please…”

No talking to other men. It was perhaps Steve’s biggest rule. And it hadn’t always been like that, but slowly, through time, this rule had developed into one that your husband was the most obsessed with. The most angered by if ever broken by you. And what had started out as a little bit of a jealous streak had turned into white hot, obsessive, possession – almost paranoia. He saw red if a man ever looked your way, and God forbid if he thought it was the other way around…

“You’re fucking lying,” he spits out, each word coated in pure disdain that feels like ten stabs to your heart. “Had you been telling the truth, you wouldn’t have hid it from me until I asked you how your day was. You would have told me yourself, but you didn’t. You slept with someone else, and you thought you could fucking hide it from me, didn’t you?”

“No,” you whisper.

It only takes him two strides to get to you. And you’re frozen in fear but it’s like your body goes into fight or flight mode. He lunges at you, and you know he’s going for your throat but by some miracle you dodge him. And then you run, run, run for the stairs. Two at a time, oh you could make it! You’d lock yourself in the bathroom, wait for his anger to subside. You’d done that before, sometimes it would work, sometimes–

You take the stairs two at a time, but Steve’s legs are much longer than yours. He’s bigger than you in every way possible, stronger, faster too. It’s almost laughable how quickly he catches up to you, his footsteps heavily thudding on the floorboards. On the upper landing, and you’re almost at the bedroom door when he grabs your arm and yanks you back, and then–

SMACK.

The first hit always winds you. You never get used to it – his fist connecting with your jaw, the way your head snaps to the side, the ringing in your ear that blocks out all sound for a handful of moments. And then the pain, the numbing paint that’s all too familiar, radiating and spreading like hateful wildfire as you reach up to shield your face.

“Don’t fucking run from me, you little slut.” Steve slams you against the wall before pinning your wrists by your sides. “Look at me, look at me. I’m going to give you one last chance to tell the truth, and you better think very carefully before you speak, and don't you fucking lie to me. Did. You. Fuck. Him?”

A broken sob escapes your lips, a whimper filled with desperation, “N-No.”

It’s almost like he’s donned a mask as his handsome features twist into a snarl, his eyes narrowed to slits and yet you can still see the crazed darkness that consumes them like a cloud of black smoke. His lip curls in what looks to be contempt, and he shakes his head. “You’re a fucking liar.”

His grip on you tightens, if that was even possible, and his eyes flash, and suddenly he’s shaking you violently, your head hitting the hard wall with a thud as you cry and struggle against him.

“How the fuck could you? How could you sleep with him? After everything I do for you!? Answer the fucking question, how could you!?”

You want to defend yourself, tell him that you didn’t, you wouldn’t, how could he possibly believe you could? But you know there’s no point, you know he doesn’t hear anything when he gets like this. No matter how hard you cry, how much you beg and plead with him. He only sees red, never facts. And you’re still in shock from the first hit, so when you open your mouth nothing comes out.

The slap comes out of nowhere, the harsh cracking sound echoing across the hallway and bouncing off the walls as if to mock you. Your head whips to the side, and you’d have fallen down from the sheer force had he not been holding you up with his other hand.

“P-Please stop,” you croak out, finally finding your voice as the tears stream down your face from the pain of it. From both the physical and the mental anguish because you’d truly done nothing wrong! Hadn’t you? Sometimes he made you question yourself with how angry he’d get at you. “Please, Steve, it hurts, I didn’t–”

“Shut the fuck up and stop lying!” Steve roars, shaking you so hard you have to close your eyes because everything’s starting to spin now. “You thought you were fucking slick, didn’t you? Fucking someone else behind my back while I was at work, then coming home and acting like everything was fine, doing your fucking chores like you didn’t just act like a goddamned whore,” he shakes you again, his grip on your shoulders so hard you feel like passing out. “-thinking I wouldn’t’ find out, thinking I’m some fucking idiot who can’t put two and two together. That’s what you thought, didn’t you? DIDN’T YOU?!”

He backhands you hard when you don’t answer, before throwing you over his shoulder like you’re a sack of potatoes. Limply, you lay there, half disorientated and half crestfallen because you can’t even find it in you to defend yourself anymore.

He strides into the bedroom before throwing you on the bed, hard. You land with a thud, still clutching your face that blooms with never ending pain. Again, you try to shield yourself, but it’s like a rabbit trying to hide from a hungry lion. A hungry lion fuelled by crazed hatred and contempt. And that’s what hurts you the most – how he looks at you like that. As if you’re the worst person in the world. As if he really hates you and truly believes you’d ever cheat on him.

“You’re mine,” Steve snarls, climbing on top of you and once more grabbing your wrists. “I don’t give a fuck if you think you’re a free piece of ass who can run around town spreading your legs for the first man who looks your way. I own you, you fucking whore, and it’s your fucking fault that I’m doing this now. But you need to fucking learn…”

“N-No, please,” you cry out weakly when he grabs the material of your dress and rips it clean in half. Oh no, not this. Please not this. Not when he was so mad, so violent, not when he had that crazy look in his eye. You couldn’t do it, you couldn’t. He wouldn’t be gentle, and it would hurt so much. And you were already hurting so much. “Steve, I’m begging you, please, please, don’t! D-Don’t, I promise I’ll be better! I didn’t cheat on you but I swear, next time I’ll call you, next time I’ll–”

Another slap to your face shuts you up, and your sobs turn silent. Still there, just silent. Filled with dread and anguish and fear for the horrific roughness that is to come. That always came no matter how hard you begged. No matter how careful you were to follow his rules. You always messed up somehow. Oh, you could’ve been better! You should’ve been better and then you wouldn’t be here! And he’d still be nice, and you’d be sitting downstairs eating dinner and laughing, and…

Oh, how did it get to this?

“Everything I do for you, and you throw it all back in my face,” Steve snarls, and he’s so unrecognisable. Like a dark stranger looming above you, pelting out harsh words that he knows will cut deep, twist like a knife straight through your heart. Make you feel like you’re the worst person alive, and certainly the worst wife. Someone who can’t do anything right. Someone who can’t even keep her husband happy.

“I give you everything you could fucking want, I provide for you, don’t I?” He grabs your face with one hand, squeezing so hard it hurts. “Don’t I? Don’t I fucking give you anything you could ask for? And all I want in return is for you to listen to me. Your goddamned loyalty, that’s all I want. For you to fucking understand that you’re my property, that you need to do what I say. And what do you end up doing? Cheating on me like the fucking whore I always knew you were.”

He makes you believe it sometimes. Well, at first you didn’t, but now you’re not too sure. Maybe you were a terrible wife, because otherwise why would he always get so mad? You always tried your best to keep him happy but you never did enough. Did other wives do more than you did? Was that why their husbands never got mad at them? Was that why they were always happy and relaxed? While you walked on eggshells, waiting for him to explode? Maybe he wouldn’t be like this if he were married to a different woman. A better woman. Someone who didn’t make as many mistakes as you did. Someone who didn’t annoy him that much. Someone who kept him happy and didn’t make him so mad all the time that he had to accuse her of cheating. Someone he didn’t look at with pure hatred in his eyes, like he was doing with you now.

Steve kisses you roughly, possessively. Pressing his lips down on yours as if he wants to imprint the feel of them on you, sear it straight into your memory. As if you could ever forget. But it’s the sweet kisses from Steve that you want to remember, not the hate-fuelled way he’s kissing you now. But you just lie there limply, lie there and let him kiss you, let him pull your now tattered dress off you. And you wonder if he can taste the saltiness of your tears, and you wonder if even a tiny part of him cares.

How did it get to this?

“I’ll show you,” Steve mutters darkly, “I’ll show you who you fucking belong to. And it’s all your fucking fault, because you’re gonna feel it. And maybe this time, you won’t fucking forget it.”

You look beyond his shoulder as he unzips his fly and pulls his hard cock out. You look at the tiny speck on the wall, focus on it really hard. Focus on it till your vision blurs, focus on it so you don’t feel the excruciating pain as he forces his huge cock inside you. Focus on it till you can’t feel his hand wrapping around your throat, till you can’t hear the pure hatred hurtling out of his mouth. Maybe if you focused hard enough, it would all go away. Like magic.

It wasn’t always like this.

You remember your first date with Steve, almost a year ago to the day. Your friends had set you up with him, telling you he was only a couple of years older than you. Great looking, had an established career. But a bit shy, a bit reserved, someone who mostly kept to himself. You’d agreed, because you were shy and reserved too, and suggested ice-skating as a first date activity to help, well, break the ice.

And it had been so funny, because Steve couldn’t ice skate for the life of him.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he’d huffed, awkwardly “skating” up to you in the middle of the rink. Except he was less skating and more just dragging his skates across the ice while holding his huge arms out to balance himself. It was comical, because he looked so big and out of place, and yet so cute that you couldn’t help but giggle.

“It just takes a while to get used to,” you’d answered, skating around him before impulsively grabbing his hands in case he fell over or something. And you’d immediately widened your eyes when you’d realised what you’d done, about to drop his hands like hot pokers because you were never this forward on a first date! But Steve had chuckled, keeping a tight grip on your gloved hands and pulling you closer.

“Nope, I just think it’s in my genetic makeup to be bad at ice skating,” he’d said as he’d let you guide him back to the side of the rink where he could hold the railing, and yet he didn’t let go of your hands as he winked. “Either that, or I’m actually a pro who’s faking it just so you’ll hold my hand.”

You’d gone to the Christmas market after that, and Steve had bought you a hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows on top. You thought he’d stop holding your hand once you were off the ice, but he’d held it throughout your stroll through the markets. You’d delicately sipped your hot drink, secretly thrilled at how nice and safe it felt to hold his big, warm hand. How he was so handsome and he genuinely seemed interested in you.

“You’ve got whipped cream on your nose,” Steve had pointed out, and before you could wipe it off, he’d done it for you. And then his hand had stayed on your face, cupping it gently while the market bustled around you, busy as ever but the two of you seemed to be in your own little bubble. And then he’d kissed you, and it had felt so incredibly right. Like coming home from a long, cold day and being met with the warm familiarity of your own house. A house where you felt safe, and content, because in that moment, that’s what he made you feel.

Safe, warm, content, happy.

“I’m never letting you out of this fucking house again, you hear me?” Steve grunts, slapping your cheek not-so-lightly and knocking you out of your reverie. You blink several times, hoping it’s just a dream. But his rough thrusts remind you that it’s not, and your mouth curls in pain as his hand goes back to wrap around your throat. “Not until you learn not to act like such a goddamned slut, not until you learn to fucking listen to me, and be good. This is all your fucking fault, okay? That’s why I have to teach you.”

“St-Steve,” you cry lightly, unable to breathe because of how he’s pressing down on your neck, “I-I can’t… I can’t…”

“Shut up!” His thrusts grow harder, even more unforgiving. And all you can do is lie there and take it, and hope and pray and wish that you were somewhere else right now. With someone else. Or no one at all. His hands, which you’d known to be so gentle once upon a time, are rough as they squeeze and fondle and slap you as if you’re an animal, a toy, something he wants to pound till he breaks. “You deserve this, you little whore. Tell me, was that fucker’s cock worth it? Was it worth ruining what we have? FUCKING TELL ME!”

So unfair. It was so horrifically unfair. Because you’d never think of cheating on him, never ever. You love Steve, despite everything you love him so much. But he didn’t love you. Of course he didn’t. Maybe he had at first, but he didn’t anymore.

What had you done to make yourself so unlovable? What had you done to make him hate you so much?

Again, you think how he feels like a stranger, a stranger who’s hurting you and violating you in the most unforgiving way possible. All while you lie there and take it. And how was this Steve? The very same Steve you’d fallen in love with less than a year ago? The same Steve who’d confided everything in you? Told you that you were the one for him, told you how much he loved you, how happy he was that he’d found you? How was this the same Steve?

You still remember how surprised your friends had been with how close you and Steve had gotten in such a short amount of time. But they’d also been happy, and taken all the credit of course, as they’d set the two of you up.

And you remember feeling so goddamned happy all the time. Happy whenever you got off work and you got to see Steve. Giddy because of how comfortable you felt around him, despite knowing him for such a short period of time. One date turned to two, which turned to five, and before you knew it, you were looking forward to spending nights at his place. Cooking for him, kissing him, climbing up on his roof and talking all night while staring up into the stars.

It was during one of those moments when Steve had told you that you were the first person he’d felt close to in a very long time. He’d told you that he hadn’t had a great childhood, that his parents hadn’t been very nice people. And because of that, he’d run away when he was sixteen and never looked back. He didn’t speak to them anymore.

He’d told you he’d had a girlfriend before, and they’d been together many years until she cheated on him. And he’d squeezed your hand then, looking up at you from where his head had been resting on your lap, and the stars in the sky had reflected in his eyes so brightly, and he’d told you that you were the first person since then that he’d felt connected with, that he’d felt like he could be himself around. That he loved you so much despite the fact he’d only known you a couple of weeks. He loved you so much and so hard, that you were all he could think about. That you consumed him. And he loved that. And he loved you.

So, where did all that go?

That’s what you wonder now, your body jolting from each unforgiving thrust as the man who is your husband fucks you relentlessly, fucks you like he hates you. Tells you repeatedly, again and again that it’s all your fault.

Your fault. Maybe it is your fault. Oh, if only you hadn’t gone out today! If only you’d just stayed at home and been good! Then the car would’ve never broken down, and none of this would have happened, and Steve would’ve been happy. And you wouldn’t have made him upset like how you always seem to do now.

“I’ll make sure you never fucking disobey me again,” he mutters, pushing your legs up and throwing them over his shoulders while you moan in pain underneath him. His cock is a blur, pummelling in and out of you like a jackhammer. And it’s crazy, the very person who’d made you feel such pleasure in the past, could be inflicting so much pain on you now. “I’ll make sure they all know who you belong to the moment they fucking look at you. Fuck, I’ll show you.”

The contempt in his tone kills you over and over again. Makes you think you’ll never be good enough to make him happy. Make anyone happy. Maybe it was you who had ruined Steve, turned him into the monster he’d become. Maybe it was all your fault, your fault that the sweet, caring man you’d met had turned into your worst nightmare. Someone you were so fucking scared of that sometimes you couldn’t even breathe.

“I’ll knock you the fuck up,” Steve grabs your chin, pressing his forehead against yours, “Maybe then you’ll get it through your head that you’re not the free piece of ass you seem to think you are. And everyone will see who exactly you belong to.”

You whimper, too frightened to protest, your body jolting with each thrust. And it always hurts when he’s this rough, it always burns so bad because of how big he is.

You remember a few months into dating him, when he’d taken your virginity. He’d been so sweet, so gentle. Holding you close and murmuring sweet nothings in your ear while you cried in his arms despite trying to be brave. He’d told you he was big, and that it would hurt and he’d pull out if you wanted him to. But you’d held on to him so tightly that night, because despite the pain, it had been so special to you. And he’d been so kind, so tender, and you’d basked in the glow of being loved. And the pain had been worth it, because you’d felt so close to him, and he’d told you over and over again how much he loved you, how special you were. How you completed him. How you were so pretty, so exquisite, how if he could take all the pain away from you and give it to himself, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

Now, he roughly presses his huge palm against your abdomen, and you can see the outline of his cock in your stomach as he continues to jut into you with inhumane force. Each thrust makes the bed rock underneath you, the bedposts hitting the wall with thwack after thwack while you silently lay there, the tears drying up on your cheeks, and yet your whole body still burns with pain from the constant onslaught.

“God fuck, your pussy’s still so fucking tight despite how much of a fucking whore you are,” Steve mutters through gritted teeth, “I’m gonna fill you the fuck up, get you pregnant once and for all so everyone knows not to fuck with what’s mine. And I swear to God, from now on you won’t even look at another man, let alone fuck some hick ass mechanic who’s trying to take you away from me because you’re too goddamned stupid to realise it.”

He hadn’t always so possessive to the point of insanity. Not the way he is now. You remember the old Steve, how he’d see you having innocent interactions with other men and not think twice about it. But slowly and surely, that had changed.

“I don’t like you talking to other men,” Steve had admitted to you once a few weeks into your relationship. “I know it’s irrational but I just hate it.”

“Oh, Stevie, it doesn’t mean anything,” you’d giggled, although you remembered secretly feeling so giddy that he cared enough about you to be jealous. That meant he was serious about you! “It’s you that I want, I couldn’t care less about anyone else!”

“I know,” he’d sighed, grabbing your hands and pressing kisses on them in a way that made you giggle even more. “I guess it’s just something I have to work on.”

But what had started out as simple, innocuous jealousy had morphed into something so much bigger, twisted, and ugly.

It began with a simple request; “please baby, don’t talk to him. I don’t like it.” And you found yourself listening to him, thinking he’d leave you if you didn’t. You distanced yourself from any male friends you had, including co-workers and even your relatives. You couldn’t stand to see Steve upset, and he’d asked you so nicely, so why wouldn’t you listen to him?

After that, he’d made you move in with him. “It’s just easier this way,” he’d assured you, despite the fact that you’d only been going out less than two months, “I feel more comfortable knowing you’re safe in my bed at night, and then I don’t worry as much.”

Then he’d made you quit your job. “I don’t like how those men at your work look at you,” he’d said, “I’ll take care of you, sweetie. You don’t need to work anymore.” And so, you’d quit without a second thought. It’s what had made Steve happy, so why wouldn’t you listen to him?

Then, he’d wanted to know where you were all the time. “I worry about you so much, you have no idea,” he’d told you once when the two of you were in bed and he was holding you close, stroking your hair while you lay on top of his chest. “I need to know where you are all the time, okay? I just… I need to know. And who you’re with. You need to tell me, or else I’ll go insane.”

Constant check-ins, constant texts. You were allowed to go out with your girlfriends, but never past a certain time. And certainly never a holiday or a girls’ trip. He had to know who your friends were, if they had boyfriends or brother, he had to know everything. And you were so in love with him, you hadn’t even realised that maybe it was all too much.

“My ex-girlfriend was having an affair behind my back for one year,” he’d told you quietly one night. One hot August night when the two of you had climbed up on his roof, and he lay with his head in your lap. His feathery lashes fanning his cheekbones, and his face softened by the moonlight, he’d looked like an angel that night. “One whole year, and I didn’t have a clue until the day I caught her. Them. I caught them in my bed.”

You’d listened with baited breath, because Steve never really spoke much about his life before you. Not his childhood, nor his parents who he didn’t speak to. And definitely never his ex-girlfriend.

“I just can’t lose you,” he’d said, staring hard at the dark night sky, “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you, if you left me. If someone took you away from me, I think I’d die.”

You’d kissed him then, and whispered against his lips, “I’m not going anywhere, Stevie. I love you so much, and there’s nobody else out there for me. Just you. So don’t worry, because you’re stuck with me for as long as you’ll have me.”

He’d sat up and taken you into his arms, hugging you so tight you couldn’t breathe – but in a good way. “Forever,” he’d mumbled into your hair, “I’ll have you forever, and then after that too. I’m never gonna let you go.”

You’d married him a month later in a small ceremony with just your family and some friends. And he’d looked so happy on that day, so handsome and happy and he’d held you close to him the whole night. You were happy too, and thrilled that he was so happy. “Now everyone knows your mine,” he’d whispered in your ear while you two slow-danced, “This is all I’ve ever wanted, you’re all I’ve ever wanted. Thank you. I love you.”

“If you ever fucking cheat on me again, I’ll kill him.” Steve grabs your jaw hard, his fingers pressing against your skin until you cry out, ripped away from the safety of your memories and back into the present. “And you too. You got that? I’ll fucking kill you both.”

You’ve cried all the tears you possibly can, and so you just lay there. Limp, shaking like a leaf yet feeling so numb. So numb and alone because he wasn’t your husband. He was a monster, a monster you didn’t even recognise. Your angelic husband warped into a monster because of you, because of you, because of you!

With a grunt, he unloads inside you. His hot cum searing you from the inside out, and there’s so much of it. And he holds you up, with your legs pressed up over his shoulders, spilling load after load of his seed into you, making sure it stays, making sure it sticks.

And then he throws you aside, rising up to his feet and staring at you with blazing eyes. He’s still fully dressed in his suit, while you lie below him in your tattered dress. The one you’d chosen so painstakingly to wear for him today.

With glassy eyes and limbs that don’t move, you watch him as he does up his fly, muttering profanity under his breath. He’s still so angry, you can tell by that vein on his forehead, and the way his fists are balled up by his sides. You hate his fists. They scare you more than anything else in the whole world.

He doesn’t utter another word. Instead, he leaves. You hear him go down the stairs, hear the jangle of the car keys, the slam and lock of the front door.

He was gone.

Your body curls up into foetal position, and you hug yourself hard. It’s the only solace you can give yourself. Everything hurts. From your face, your jaw, your arms, your whole body down to your heart and your soul. Oh, you hate yourself! For being so weak, so pathetic!

But most of all, you hate yourself for making him how he’d become. If only you’d been a better wife, if only you’d been able to make him happy. Good wives didn’t get hit. So maybe this pain was what you deserved.

If only you hadn’t lied about the car…

Oh, the car! The goddamned car! You wish to God you could turn back time. But what could you have even done differently?

You remember feeling a sense of dread the moment the car had stopped working. And it had increased tenfold when you’d taken your phone out to call Steve, only for there to be no signal. Of course, the car had decided to stop working in the middle of nowhere. It was less than ideal, since you had to get home and finish all your chores before Steve got home. Otherwise, he might get mad, and then…

“Hey there, you OK?”

The knock on your window makes you jump, and you find a man peering in at you, a friendly yet slightly concerned look on his face. Oh gosh, Steve would be so mad if I spoke to this man now, you think to yourself. And yet… there’s not much else you can do. Your car won’t start back up, and you don’t know the first thing about repairing it.

“H-Hey,” you roll your window down, trying not to look directly at the stranger’s tanned face. “I’m OK, thanks for asking. My, uh, my car isn’t though. I think. It won’t start up.”

The man nods, “Yeah, that’s why I came over. Saw you on the side of the road and knew you wouldn’t be parked here for no reason.” He pauses, listening to the hum of your engine with a thoughtful look on his face. “I think I recognise the sound. If I could get this car back to my auto-shop, I think I could fix it.”

“Really?” Hope fills your heart before reality comes crashing down. Steve wouldn’t like for you to be going into auto-shops with men you didn’t know. You weren’t allowed to talk to any man unless Steve approved it. And you gulp, thinking how mad he’d be if he found out. The hairs on the back of your neck prickle as you think about the last time he’d gotten mad at you… No, you couldn’t go with this man, it wouldn’t be worth the trouble.

“I, uh, I think I can get it to start back up myself. Thanks anyways though!” You say with false brightness. But after a few more failed attempts, you slump back against your seat in defeat, and the man chuckles.

“A valiant effort. But as I said, my shop’s only about a mile and a half down that way. And luckily, I’ve got my tow truck with me now. Let me help you, and you’ll be on your way in no time.”

His face softens when he sees the hesitant look on your face, and he runs a hand through his unruly brown hair before fishing something out of his pocket. “Here’s my card, just so you know I’m legit. C’mon, let me help you. I couldn’t possibly leave a lady out here all on her own with a broken-down car that’s an easy fix.”

You bite your lip. His business card did look legit. And after another quick glance at your phone – still no signal – you nod and smile at the stranger. Maybe Steve would be proud of you for taking the initiative and getting yourself out of a sticky and potentially dangerous situation.

The ride to the man’s auto-repair shop is short enough. And he spends the next fifteen minutes fixing your car, all while you sit in the waiting room fretting and typing out texts to Steve that you’re too scared to send. You need to think of the perfect way to explain what had happened with the car, the most delicate explanation that wouldn’t result in him getting mad. Oh, you didn’t want him to get mad! Not when things had been going so well recently, and he hadn’t gotten mad in a long time, and you were starting to believe that he still loved you, and wasn’t annoyed by you all the time, and didn’t hate you, and–

“She’s almost fixed!” The man had announced cheerily, walking into the waiting room and shooting you a bright smile, one that had melted off his face the moment he’d seen the look of worry on your face. “Hey, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” standing up and smoothening down your dress, you’d shot the man a puzzled look. “What do you mean, almost?”

“Almost as in I need an extra part to complete the fix, but it won’t come in until tomorrow.” The man runs a hand through his wavy brown hair that curls charmingly at the base of his neck. “But don’t worry, she’ll be back home in your driveway by noon tomorrow at the latest. I promise.”

“T-Tomorrow?” your blood runs cold, and it’s insane how your hands start shaking instantaneously. “But it can’t stay here overnight, my…my husband, he’ll find out, and then–”

“Husband?” The man repeats slowly before quickly gathering himself and taking a step back. “Well, ma’am, I’m sure he won’t mind about the car, so long as you’re alright. And don’t worry, I can give you a lift home.”

“N-No, you don’t understand, he…” you swallow harshly, squeezing your eyes shut for a second and clasping your hands to get them to stop shaking so violently, “N-No, he can’t know I was here, he can’t, he’ll…”

“Why don’t you let me speak to him,” the mechanic says slowly, pointing at your phone. “I’m sure I could explain the problem with the engine–”

Your eyes widen in pure fear, “NO! I mean, uh, no, that won’t be necessary. I just, oh God, I-I…” Suddenly, you can’t think straight. If Steve found out you were at this man’s auto-shop alone with him, that he’d spoken to you, that you’d spoken back to him… Oh no, Steve couldn’t find out. He’d get so mad, and he’d hurt you, and then everything would be awful for days.

“Is everything okay, ma’am?” The guy has a look of serious concern painted on his face as he stands before you. He’s tall, tall just like Steve, and looks just as strong too. “I know it’s none of my business, but you look awfully scared.”

You force a laugh that comes out a tad too high-pitched, “I’m fine! I’m totally fine! I just…”

“Let me give you a lift home,” the man says gently, taking a hesitant step closer to you. “I can speak to your husband, let him know it wasn’t your fault that your car broke down.”

“That’s not what he’d be angry about,” your eyes widen when you realise you’ve said too much. “I mean, he won’t be angry at all. Not at all. Everything’s gonna be just fine.”

More than him, it seems like you’re trying to persuade yourself.

“I, uh, I’ll call myself a cab,” you say, but the man places his warm hand on your wrist to stop you, and the contact makes you jump. He’s so… gentle. It’s a strange sensation. And then he just… looks at you. For a handful of seconds that feel like ages, he just looks at you with inquisitive blue eyes, as if he’s trying to read you, or at least trying to understand.

“Please, allow me,” finally, he tears his eyes away, and he’s got his phone out and he’s already dialling the number, “the reception here isn’t great, but my phone seems to work through it.”

It’s only later, when you’re getting into the cab, that he grabs your arm once more. Well, “grab” would be the wrong word. He gently placed his hand on your arm as if to stop you, and you hesitate, half distracted by the need to get home before Steve and come up with an excuse about the car, and half curious about what the mechanic has to say.

“You have my card,” he says slowly with significance, his voice lowering to a deep rumble. “Call me tomorrow about your car. Or,” he adds when you start closing the cab door, “if you feel like there’s another reason you should call me, then please just do it. I’m here to help.”

He holds your gaze for a moment or two, a few wayward strands of his brown hair falling over his forehead before he pushes them back. You find yourself forgetting to breathe, before you quickly shake your head and force a smile before looking away.

“Thank you for your help.”

Now, you lie alone on your bed, on your side with your knees up to your chest, shielding yourself and your poor body from whatever lies ahead. You can feel the outline of the mechanic’s card in your dress pocket, and muster up the strength to take it out.

Should you call him? It’s not like you had anyone else. Your family lived miles and miles away on the other side of the country. Steve had moved you to a different state after the wedding, claiming the two of you needed a fresh new beginning to start your new life together. And so you’d left all your friends and family behind without a second thought, loyally following your husband into the sunset because you loved him and trusted him.

You’d made new friends now, but they were the wives of Steve’s friends, and you didn’t know if you could trust them. What if they took Steve’s side? What if they recognised that it was you who’d turned him so awful and mean? That it was you who was the rotten one, poisoning everything you touched because you couldn’t keep him happy, couldn’t be a good wife?

You stare so hard at the card until your vision blurs, and then you stare some more. After a while, your thoughts just cease altogether, and you just lie there. Just wishing you didn’t exist. Wishing you were never alive to begin with, wishing you never felt the immense love in your heart that you still do for Steve. Wishing love never existed and neither did you. That you just disappeared into thin air one day and Steve could move on and be happy and be better for someone who made him better. Someone he genuinely loved and cared for and wanted to be better for.

Someone who so clearly wasn’t you.

You don’t know how long you lie there. Motionless. It’s different this time. In the past, after he’s left you like this, you’ve been able to get back up. Brush yourself off, make yourself pretty again and pretend it never happened. For the sake of both of you, just pretend it never happened.

You remember the first time he’d hit you. It was a month or so after your wedding, and Steve had taken you out to a work party of his. And you’d felt so relaxed, so pretty on the arm of your husband, wearing the dress he’d chosen for you, the jewellery he’d bought you. The diamond earrings sat pretty on your ears, a present from him that very night. He’d come up behind you while you’d sat at your vanity getting ready, and kissed your cheek and told you how much he loved you, how you deserved all the prettiest things in life because you were the prettiest thing in his life.

You’d felt so at ease, being led around by Steve whilst you mingled and spoke with his work colleagues. But his good mood hadn’t lasted as the night had gone on, and halfway through the evening, you’d sensed him go silent next to you. Deathly silent. His grip around your waist had tightened to the point where it was almost uncomfortable, and his jaw was tight too. His lips set into a straight line.

He’d been just as silent on the drive back home, and it was only once the two of you were back in your bedroom, that he’d chose to speak.

“You were getting awfully comfortable with some of the men at the party,” he’d commented while you were undoing his tie.

You’d wrinkled your nose, “What?”

“Don’t say what. You know exactly what I mean.” His tone was cold, colder than you’d ever heard it. Soon, you’d grow used to the tell-tale signs that he was going into that dark, forlorn place he went to when he got like this. But back then, you didn’t really have an inkling.

“D-Did I do something to upset you, Stevie?” You’d asked hesitantly, not knowing what to make of his detached anger. You’d reached back to undo the zipper of your dress. Usually, he did it, but he wasn’t offering to do it then.

“Do I have to spell it out for you?” His tone had been so cutting that you’d physically flinched, and when he’d turned back around, his eyes were blazing accusatorily, “You were acting like a goddamned slut tonight, flirting with all those men.”

You remember the insult not even hitting you, because the absurdity of his statement had taken you so far off guard that instead, a giggle had escaped from your lips. An awkward giggle, like you had no idea what to say to such an absurd accusation.

“Do you find this funny?” You’d never forget the look he’d given you then, how he’d strode across the room, how big he’d looked, how scared you’d felt in that one second.

“No, Stevie, I was just–”

The strike had come out of nowhere. Like a clap of thunder, almost. You’d heard it before you’d even felt it. The slap that seemed to reverberate off the walls, except it was his palm against your cheek. The force of it had you reeling, and you’d lost your balance. Crashed against the wall with a thud before you’d fallen down.

You still remember how unreal it all had felt. Like an out of body experience, almost. Surreal. And the pain had bloomed instantly on the side of your face, and you’d looked up at him and he’d looked down at you, a horrified look on his face. He’d held his hand out in front of him, staring at it hard, and the darkness from his eyes had cleared.

Back in the present, and you can’t stop shaking. You feel numb, empty, and yet you can’t stop shaking. You try to think back to the old Steve, the good Steve. The sweet Stevie who was a little bit shy, and yet so charming and witty at the same time. So poetically in love that he’d made you fall for him, hook, line and sinker. The romantic Steve who’d whisked you off your feet and you’d happily followed him into the sunset without a second glance backwards.

Steve. The love of your life.

You just wish he still loved you back.

You don’t know how long you lie there. Seconds, minutes, hours, they don’t mean a thing. Not when this was to be your reality for the rest of your life. Again, you feel the charming mechanic’s card in your hand, but now you can’t even muster up the energy to hold it up.

It’s the dead of the night when he finally comes back. You haven’t moved an inch, but the sound of the front door shutting and the footsteps thudding up the stairs has alarm bells going off in your head.

No, no, no. No more hitting, no more pain. You couldn’t take another slap, you couldn’t, you couldn’t, you couldn’t! In fight or flight mode, you heave yourself up, shaking with fear. The only place you can think of to hide is under the bed. And maybe he wouldn’t care to look for you, maybe he’d stay in the guest room, maybe he’d just leave you alone.

But you see Steve’s shoes as he enters your shared bedroom, and you find that you’re holding your breath. Slowly, he steps inside, and you hear him call out your name quietly. You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping to be transported away. Far, far away where nothing cruel could reach you, and you could be happy all the time and not have to feel any pain, not ever, ever, ever!

It’s when his fingers wrap around your ankle that you start crying again. But no sound comes out, perhaps because you’re in shock. Or maybe because you’re just too scared. Rigid, frozen in complete fear, you’re limp as he pulls you out from under the bed.

“Oh God,” he whispers as the stark white orange light of the bedroom hits you. “Oh…Oh God… I…” his voice catches, his blue eyes clear and alert, blinking several times as he takes you in. Your poor, quivering body, and haunted, dead eyes that look anywhere except at him.

“I didn’t mean to,” he hoists you up into his lap gently as he sits on the cold floor, a mix of shock and regret on his face as he repeatedly shakes his head, surveying your face, your arms, your shoulders, your stomach, “Baby, I… Oh God, I didn’t mean it, I swear I didn’t…”

You find the tiny speck on the wall once more, and you fix your gaze upon it until it blurs. You're so numb, so far away, and you barely feel his hand as he gingerly touches the bruises and marks he’s left on you. Some old ones, some new. Some that had yet to turn dark and noticeable, some half covered in makeup from before.

Carefully, Steve strokes your face, the same side he’d slapped repeatedly only a few hours before. But the gentleness doesn’t register to you. Nothing does. You stare at the speck even harder, wondering if it was always there.

“I’m so sorry,” he breathes, his tone hushed, regretful. Filled with anguish. “Baby, I’m so sorry, I… I got angry, I shouldn’t have got angry but I just…” his voice trails off as he stares hard at his own hand. As if he can’t believe he’s done this, as if he can’t believe that his own hand was capable of doing so much damage.

The speck on the wall seems to get bigger. You wish to God it would swallow you up whole.

“I swear I won’t do it again; I won’t ever hurt you like this again, I swear on my life,” Steve holds you up against his chest, cradles you like you’re a baby. And it feels so alien, to be handled so delicately. He hugs you close, burying his face in your shoulder, and that’s when you hear his voice break, “I won’t do it again, you have my word I’ll never hurt you again. I’m so fucking sorry, oh God, I’m so sorry.”

I won’t do it again. You’d heard that before. That’s what he’d said the first time he’d hit you. That’s what he said after every time. The speck grows blurry.

“Baby, please say something,” he stops hugging you, but still holds you in his lap, his strong arms around you in a way that should make you feel safe but right now you just feel nothing. His voice is thick, “I swear on everything, I won’t lay a hand on you again. I just… I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I don’t know why I get like that. Everything goes black, and it’s like I can’t think straight and then by the time I can, it’s too late. But I swear I’ll get better, I swear on my life this won’t happen again, baby, just please. Please say something.”

If you painted over the speck, would it still be there? Would it disappear entirely, or would the paint chip off after enough time had passed, and reveal the ugliness once more?

“I’ll go to anger management, therapy, you name it,” he shakes you gently, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones. “I want to get better for you, be better for you. I know I’m not a good man, baby, I know you deserve better and I’ll do anything. I swear, this is the last time I hurt you, okay? Please, just believe me, okay? Just say something.”

Steve stands up with you in his arms, your limbs falling limply down by your sides, your head lolling down too. Almost like you’re not real, like you’re a doll who was alive for a little while but you’re not anymore. You certainly don’t feel alive. You don’t feel anything. Just numbness.

Tenderly, he lays you down on the bed. The same bed he’d roughly thrown you down and violated you on just a few hours earlier. And a part of you, a tiny part of you from the deepest recesses of your mind, wants to muster up the courage to look into his eyes. To search for the man you love, to see if he’s still there. But the dark numbness eats you from the inside out, and so you just stare blankly at your speck on the wall.

“I promise I’ll change,” Steve repeats, the desperation now evident in his tone as he clutches your face, wills you to look at him. “Please, just listen to me. Believe me when I say I’ll change. Wh-When we… when we have our little girl, I’ll change. I’ll be a good husband and a good dad, make both of you happy. I won’t ever get like this again, I can promise you that now, alright? That’s a promise I’m making to you right now.”

A child? Would he hurt it too? Would he grow to hate it too, simply because it would be yours?

He grabs your hand, and his is so warm. Or is yours the one that’s freezing cold? It had been cold under the bed, but you’d liked it. Feeling cold was a different kind of pain, one that distracted you from the pain he’d caused you.

He kisses you desperately, all over your face as if trying to get you to say something back to him. Instead, you notice another speck on the ceiling above the closet. How many were there? Were they secretly laughing at you? Mocking you for staying so long in a speck-filled house?

“Baby?” Steve’s eyes glisten, his face so ghastly pale as he grabs your hand and presses more desperate kisses on it, “Baby, please say something. Say you forgive me. I-I don’t know why I do it, okay? I just, I’m so fucking terrified of someone taking you away from me. Taking away the one person, the only person, in my whole fucking life who means everything to me. I couldn’t stand it, I thought he’d take you away from me, and I just saw red, and I’m so sorry. I hate myself for doing this to you, baby. I’m so sorry, please say something!”

But you can’t! How can you, when it doesn’t even feel like you’re real anymore?

The specks are all around you now, growing larger and larger. You can hear Steve apologising over and over again, hugging you close as he begs for your forgiveness. But you’re too far away, so far away that you can barely hear him anymore. Lightyears away, in your own universe where you’re brave and confident and nobody ever messes with you. Nobody ever hurts you. And you take care of yourself, and it’s enough.

You find yourself hurtling through windows of time, entering one before flitting into the next as the specks grow so large it feels like they’re consuming you. You find yourself observing your birthday last year, when you’d baked your own cake and Steve had spent hours decorating it for you. Using your favourite-coloured frosting, and of course you’d gotten some on your face. He’d kissed it off for you, and told you that you were adorable.

Now you’re on Steve’s roof, the night he’d told you about his big promotion at work. You’d yelped in excitement, hugged him so hard it had hurt – but the good kind of hurt. And he’d had those stars in his eyes as he’d held you. “You’re my best friend, you know?” he’d said, “Every time anything good happens, you’re the first person I look for in the room to tell.”

Memory after memory, one cherished moment after another. And you’re so possessive of these moments, like you want to lock them up in a jar and keep them safe forever. Not let them get tainted like how he’d gotten tainted. Because of you, of course.

Maybe I’ll stay here, you think as the specks continue to consume you. It’s safe here. I’m happy here. He’s happy too. Maybe I’ll stay forever...

But something's stopping the specks from swallowing you up and taking you away. Taking you far, far away where Steve couldn't hurt you anymore, the place where there was only love and never hate. But something's stopping you, pulling you back like gravity that you simply couldn't defy. A stranger's voice, warm and sweet like honey, cutting through the freezing cold numbness.

“If you feel like there’s another reason you should call me, then please just do it. I’m here to help.”

You feel the card clutched tightly in your hand; the hand Steve isn’t holding on to. And it pulls you back, back, back to reality. Another memory, but this time it’s a stranger with blue eyes and a friendly smile.

The specks slowly start to disappear, and you find yourself back in your bedroom. Back in Steve’s arms. Back in his warm embrace, except it does nothing to stop you from feeling so numbingly cold.

“I love you,” Steve whispers, “I love you so much, I’d die if I lost you. Please forgive me, baby. Come back to me. I won’t ever hurt you again.”

He lifts you up and hugs you once more, holding on to you so tightly as if his life depends on it. Strokes your hair and whispers sweetly in your ear, says all the words of regret that you've heard before. But you lie motionless in his arms like a broken doll, your poor cheek resting limply on his shoulder.

And it’s over Steve’s shoulder that you look down at the card in your hand, and read the man’s name, along with his number. And suddenly, a coolness washes over you.

Your finger twitches. You take a deep breath.

“Baby?” Steve draws back till you’re both face to face once more, and his eyes have those stars in them again, the stars you'd fallen in love with, the stars you'd wanted back so bad that you'd let it get this far. He cups your face, and presses his forehead against yours.

“You forgive me, don't you?"

THE END.

Okay so. That was a lot. It was a lot to write. If you're still here, then thank you for sticking around till the end. I hope you enjoyed reading it and I hope you found the story that I was trying to tell compelling. Please do let me know what you thought. What do you think reader will do now? What do you WANT her to do now? Who was the stranger? Why is Steve the way he is? IDK. Any raw thoughts and feedback would be incredible as always. Thanks so much for baring with me while I tried to post this fic. One last thing - this is a work of complete fiction. Thank you <3

[lemonlover1110]

𝐂𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐄𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭

Satoru Gojo

[Chapter 1] The Lovely Bride

Story Masterlist

Pairing: Clan Leader!Satoru Gojo x f!Reader, Suguru Getou x f!Reader

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It should be an honor to be selected as Satoru Gojo’s bride. Selected as the vessel to pass down his techniques over generations is the greatest privilege bestowed on a human. Any sorcerer would kill to be in the position of becoming his bride. However, it isn’t an issue of luck.

You can’t just get Satoru Gojo to fall in love with you and propose– Even if you did manage, getting married to Satoru is impossible. That is since the moment of his birth, he’s been betrothed to another. He’s never met her, and he has no idea what she looks like, but they’re still supposed to get married in the spring.

Months after his twenty-fifth birthday, Satoru is supposed to get married to a woman that he’s never met. He isn’t particularly excited about it, but he won’t do anything to fight against it either. He’s expected to get married eventually, he might as well complete the task now. 

Satoru can only hope that the woman that he’s expected to get married to isn’t annoying. The man wants to be able to coexist with her without having to worry about some woman falling in love with him. But Satoru doubts that he’ll have to worry too much, no one in their right mind wants an arranged marriage. 

There’s a lingering question in his mind about her: What does she look like? He has yet to see her even though his wedding is in a matter of hours. He barely remembers her name, yet his mind focuses on the most shallow part… Is she attractive? 

Though, Satoru doesn’t have the time to worry about her. Even when she’s his bride, he has more important things to worry about today.

Satoru looks at himself in the mirror, fixing his attire to make sure he looks perfect. Today, everything has to go according to plan. Nothing can fall short. Anything that goes wrong falls on his shoulders, who else is there to blame if not the man in charge?

Satoru shouldn’t care for criticism, especially for something as trivial as a wedding. But it certainly leaves a sour taste in his mouth when he hears about what everyone else is saying. Satoru can’t make a misstep without it being in the mouth of at least a hundred people. It’s an annoyance to say the least.

“What do you need?” Satoru asks before the door fully opens. Suguru steps inside, watching Satoru who looks ready. The wedding does not start until at least four hours, there’s no reason for Satoru to be ready. 

“Just checking up on you before your big day.” Suguru says, but Satoru knows that what Suguru says is a lie. There’s another reason for Suguru’s presence. 

“Why are you actually here?” Satoru questions, finally turning around to look at the man. Suguru puts his hands in his pockets before sighing.

“We can’t find the bride.” Suguru confesses, his eyes focused on Satoru’s face to watch the man’s reaction. To his surprise, Satoru looks unphased.

“How fast can we find a replacement?” Satoru asks, making Suguru’s eyes widen. Suguru furrows his brows, taken aback by the response. He would have sworn that Satoru would have a more tragic reaction. 

“You do know that the woman that we’re talking about is the one that you’ve been engaged to for the past twenty-five years?” Suguru tries to remind Satoru, who just nods as if it doesn’t affect him in any way. “Shoko and I are looking for her.”

“Don’t sweat over it.” Satoru responds yet again, and Suguru is surprised by the lack of response. “I mean, I’ve never met her. She’s replaceable.”

“You’re…” Suguru begins but he cuts himself off before he can say something mean. It’s not an ideal situation, so he won’t pass judgment to Satoru. “They won’t let you marry just anyone.”

“What’s so special about her anyway? From what I’ve heard, her cursed technique isn’t even all that special. She’s plain.” Satoru says, and Suguru isn’t sure of how to respond. He doesn’t come from a family of sorcerers, he doesn’t fully understand the politics of whatever is going on. 

“We can’t find a replacement that fast.” Suguru says, and it finally makes Satoru react.

“Fine. I’ll begin to look for her.” Satoru gives in. He’s ready, he guesses he can push some of his responsibilities on someone else. He has time either way, how hard can it be to find his bride? “What does she look like?”

“Uhm… We aren’t sure.” Suguru scratches the back of his neck. No one apart from her family knows what she looks like. “We saw a picture of her but it’s old.”

“Describe her.” Satoru answers, and Suguru gives the most basic descriptions that he picked up on. He can’t give many details, the picture that he was shown was from her childhood. “Okay, get out.”

“Are you going to look for her?” Suguru asks and Satoru has no other option but to hum in response. With that confirmation, Suguru exits the room, leaving Satoru behind. 

“She’s already giving me a challenge.” Satoru sighs, looking at himself one last time in the mirror before exiting the room. 

“I can climb up a wall.” You look up at the giant obstacle in your way. Now is one of those rare times where you regret not working out more. You never took physical training too seriously, and now you curse yourself for it. The main exit is crowded, it seems that word has gotten out.

You thought you were ready for this. For the past– God knows how long you've been getting ready for this day. There was never any other aspect in your life. One day you’d be Satoru Gojo’s wife. It was a promise, but it was never guaranteed for you. Either way, that’s who you were raised to be.

In a matter of hours, you’re supposed to fulfill your lifelong achievement. Yet, you’re trying to find a way to run away before it’s too late. You don’t want to be the disappointment of the family, but you also don’t think you’re capable enough to fill in the shoes of the role you’ve been assigned. You believe it’s best to run away, because at the very least you’ll find some purpose in life. A purpose that isn’t a man. 

Your hands are trembling at the mere thought of climbing the wall. You can’t do it. No matter how hard you try. There’s nothing for you to hold on to, you won’t manage. But if you just take a couple of steps back and run towards it, then maybe you can jump over it. Jump high enough that you’ll hold on to the top of the wall. 

“I can do it.” You try to tell yourself as you take a step back. You repeat the same words to yourself as you take yet another step. Just as you’re about to run off, your foot gets caught up with your kimono, and you fall forward. 

Just like that, your dream of running away vanishes. 

“Hey! Are you okay?” You hear, adding to an embarrassment that you didn’t even know was flowing through you. You were expecting to fail, but you weren’t expecting to trip and fall in front of an audience. 

You just want to bury yourself underground and die. It’s your wedding day. You shouldn’t be making a fool of yourself, this isn’t how you were taught. 

“I’m fine!” You yell as you remain on the ground. Fine, as if your forehead doesn’t sting. You’ve definitely cut yourself, but you don’t want to admit that to a stranger. 

“Here, let me help you.” You feel a pair of big hands help you sit up. His eyes narrow as they land on your forehead. His thumb swipes over your forehead, showing off the bloody thumb, “You’re hurt.”

“It’s fine.” You respond. There’s a look of concern on his face, until his purple eyes grow wide as he takes a good look at your face.

“It’s you.” He says, and you feel your heart stop. “You’re Satoru’s bride.”

“Please–” You begin, but you don’t find the right words to say. No matter what you say, you’re still getting married. It’s not like he’ll help you run away. You bite down your lip, muttering, “Nevermind.”

“I’m Suguru.” He extends his hand for you to take, hoping that he can lift you off the floor and take you back to your room. There’s a nasty cut on your forehead, one that needs to be covered up.

You sigh, taking his hand as you introduce yourself to him. You keep your voice low, not wanting to catch anyone’s attention by speaking too loudly. After all, you are a wanted woman. 

“We have to get your wound checked.” He points at your forehead, and you bring your fingertips up to the cut. Wound isn’t the right word for something that you can barely feel. You shake your head, and Suguru reminds you, “You’re getting married in a matter of hours–”

“I can deal with it.” You cut him off, and his lips turn into a thin line before he nods. “I’m going back to my room then. It was nice–”

“Suguru!” You freeze at the sound of the voice, your blood running cold. You begin to freak out internally, asking yourself about your next step. First impressions are important, and you know better than anyone that this isn’t the way that you’re supposed to meet your husband. “Is that her?” 

“We sorted it out!” Suguru yells back, looking at Satoru. Satoru’s walking over, and Suguru notices that you’re not moving. You’re completely frozen in time, and he furrows his brows inquisitively. 

“Good.” You hear his voice up close for the first time in your life, and you’re not able to lift your finger. Your eyes can’t even look at him. This is what you were scared of– You’ve barely met him and you’re already making a fool of yourself. 

“You’re the replacement then.” Satoru says, and you feel your heart drop. You sense as he looks you up and down, sending a chill down your spine. His thumb swipes over your cut, before he proceeds to inspect the blood on it. “Not bad.”

“What do you mean–” Suguru begins, but before he can get the question out, Satoru cuts him off.

“None of your business, Suguru.” Satoru says, and Suguru rolls his eyes. Suguru does so much, all to not be in the loop. “Take care of her. Take her back to her room.”

“What about her wound?” Suguru asks, and Satoru shrugs. There’s a slight smirk on Satoru’s face as he stares at the cut on your forehead.

“I’m sure she can figure it out herself. Ask about her cursed technique.” Satoru responds before stepping back. He won’t entertain the situation for longer, he has to make sure the place doesn’t fall apart. He needs to make sure everything runs smoothly, but preparations have come to a halt since his bride suddenly disappeared.

“What about–” Suguru begins but you’re walking off, almost as if you’re following after Satoru. Though you aren’t, you’re going back to your room to continue getting ready.

You’re getting married in a matter of hours.

Just a few minutes before the commencement of the wedding ceremony, Satoru walks around to make sure everything looks perfect– That is what he tells himself. He’s mindlessly walking around, trying to kill time. He just wants to get this over with, but sadly, there is a schedule that he must follow.

He can go out there and greet the higher ups that have come to watch the union of two clans, but he’d rather do anything else. He doesn’t care for the guests, nor for formalities at this point. He’s done enough by getting married and keeping the ceremony as traditional as possible.

Satoru’s walk comes to a sudden stop when he notices the door to your room isn’t completely closed. There’s a gap in the door that he can’t ignore. How long has it been like that? How much of the staff has seen his lovely bride getting changed?

You’re ready now, he shouldn’t be getting in his head about it. He steps towards your room, and slides the door open, which catches you off guard.

“Are you ready?” He questions, and your eyes are wide as if you’re looking directly at a ghost. You nod in response, shifting your gaze from the man in front of you to the ground. He quickly notices and orders, “Look at me.”

“I’m ready.” You tell him, hesitantly shifting your gaze back at him. He finally hears your voice for the first time, and it sounds forced. You’re forcing yourself to sound softer than how you actually speak.

“What happened to your sister?” Satoru questions, and you feel your breath get caught up in your chest. You’ve been instructed not to speak about her, and even though it’s Satoru, you won’t say a word. You bow down your head and apologize, which makes the man frown. “You don’t know?”

“I don’t.” You respond, and Satoru clicks his tongue. He should’ve known better than to ask you.

“Whatever.” He replies. He stares at your face, seeing that the cut on your forehead has completely disappeared. He can only think that at least you’re not completely useless.

“I’m sorry for–” You begin, bowing down your head once again. He cuts you off before you can properly apologize.

“You made your mistake but you’re here now which is what matters.” Satoru says. “Just know that you can’t back down. Your family agreed to this decades ago, you can’t run away now.” 

“I know, and I’m sorry.” You keep your voice low out of embarrassment, and he simply hums in response.

“I’ll see you there.” Satoru tells you, walking out of the room. He leaves you questioning everything in your life. You know that this isn’t what you want, but you have no option but to listen. 

This is what you were raised to do, what else can you possibly do?

You try to shake the thoughts out of your head, knowing that overthinking isn’t going to help you out of the situation. The purification ritual begins in a matter of minutes, you can’t run away now. You take a deep breath, feeling nerves creep up.

You walk to the door, getting ready to go to the ceremony. Until your eyes land on the same man from earlier– Suguru. His eyes light up as he sees you, and he begins to walk to you when you signal him to come closer.

“How can I help you?” Suguru asks, and he sees a look of worry on your face. You must be getting cold feet, something that’s not unusual considering who you’re marrying and what you’re getting yourself into.

“Can I ask you for a big favor?” You begin, and Suguru hesitantly nods in response. He’s not sure what to expect from you, but he doesn’t want to be unhelpful to the bride. You’re looking around, almost as if you’re watching out for anyone else. 

You take a deep breath before you blurt it out, “Help me run away.”

[nastybuckybarnes]

The Apology Song

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley X Reader

Warnings: Minor angst, fluff, language, fluff,

Word Count: 3.1K

A/n: Oh my God what have I done. Is this... the end???

~*~

"Put this on."

Simon tosses a bundle of fabric at you as soon as he opens the door, catching you completely off guard.

"What is it?" You ask skeptically, trying to hold the garment the way it's supposed to be held as you shift to sit with your legs off the side of the bed, feet resting on the floor.

"Put it on."

You huff out a breath through your nose.

"Why?"

He slips off his regular military-issued sweater for something a little more casual.

"We're going out."

Your brows pull together in slight confusion.

"Where?"

"The city."

This only confuses you more.

"For what?"

A simple black balaclava covers the top half of his face now, the skull plate tucked away with the rest of his gear as he tries to remember how it feels to dress more like a civilian.

"To celebrate."

You frown. "With who?"

"Quit askin' questions and get dressed."

When you make no move to get up he sighs and turns to face you, crossing his arms over his chest.

"The team. They're already headin' out so let's go."

You shake your head and toss the dress onto the floor.

"I will stay."

"I'm not askin' ya. Now, get up and get dressed. You have three minutes."

"Simon. Please," you whisper, looking at him and he reads your eyes better than a holy man reads the words of god.

You don't want to. You really don't want to. Not with the team, the same men who pointed accusatory fingers your way. The men who were too quick to decide you were untrustworthy.

His eyes soften the tiniest bit, and he steps toward you, crouching in front and gently taking your hands.

"I know. But please, for me. We have a lot to celebrate and... I want you there. I want you to experience it."

"Experience what?" You ask quietly, leaning into his hand when he cups your cheek.

"Freedom. We're done here, it's time to start heading home."

His words have your eyes snapping up to his, searching for any hint of a joke, a lie.

You find nothing but honest and earnest truth in the depths there.

"... home?" You ask breathlessly.

He nods, smoothing his thumb over your cheek.

"Home. You n'me. Will you come out and celebrate that with me?"

You fight the prickling in your eyes at his words and instead, you give him a gentle nod.

His lips twitch upward in a soft smile and then he's leaning forward, tugging your head toward him to meet him halfway.

Gingerly, his lips brush against yours, and then he's pulling away and standing up.

Without another word, you slip out of your clothes then tug the dress on, smoothing it out and then turning to face him again.

His balaclava is pulled down now, but his eyes more than give away the sweetness that rots his teeth when he looks at you.

"You look gorgeous. Grab a jacket and let's get going."

~*~

Never one to truly let loose, Simon drives the two of you into the city, parking outside of a building lit up with warmth.

Two other military vehicles are parked outside, and you need to take a deep breath to steady yourself when Simon steps out of the truck.

You can do this.

It's not for them, it's for Simon.

Your Simon.

The man who is taking you away from this horrible place with these horrible memories. The man who's bringing you home.

Making a home.

For you.

With you.

Those are the thoughts that naturally lift the corners of your mouth when he opens your door for you.

Those thoughts are what keep the smile on your face even as you walk up to the building.

They're not enough to keep the smile up, however, when you see the rest of his team seated at a table inside the building.

The walk to the table feels like it could be the longest of your life, and the seconds after it surely are.

As you reach the table, the three men rise to greet the two of you, the air thickening with tension.

Hello's are said softly, and then the Captain clears his throat.

"You look lovely."

You glance over at him, your eyes meeting for only a moment before you look away.

Your attention is pulled from the wall when a thick arm winds around your waist and a familiar fabric-covered mouth is at your ear.

"Play nice, Mouse," Simon whispers, his fingers squeezing your hip once reassuringly.

With a huff, you turn to the men and flash a smile that's just bared teeth.

"Thank you." You look between the three men, your eyes landing on Soap's.

"Nice of you to invite me. I thought you hated rat."

Simon pinches your side as soon as the words leave your lips and you hiss, turning your icy glare to him.

"I thought I said be nice," he whispers under his breath, though the words are not lost on the rest of his team.

"I am nice!" You spit quietly.

The men across from you try to avert their eyes as the two of you share a rather heated moment.

"I don't lie to them! I don't put them in cage!"

You're here for Simon. Not for them.

Simon huffs a sigh at the fire in your eyes, realizing that this is a battle he won't win. This is as nice as it gets.

"You're right," Soap interrupts, "we don't like rats. It's a good thing there are none here."

It's the first time you've heard him speak since he spat those horrible words in Simon's office. When you were up in the vents, hiding from them.

After a moment you look away, crossing your arms over your chest while Price and Ghost have a silent exchange with their eyes.

"Well, I'm gonna go get a drink. Does anyone else want one?"

And like that, some of the tension is shattered as he and Soap head to the bar while you, Gaz, Ghost, have a seat.

"Is this really how it's going to be?" Simon asks quietly, turning to face you.

Gaz looks down at his hands, trying to give the two of you some privacy while also interested in hearing more.

"I am not here for them to be happy, I am here for you. I will be quiet and that will be the only nice that they get," You hiss back.

Gaz can't help but glance up at the two of you, watching as his Lieutenant gently pushes some of your hair away from your face.

He's never seen such softness from the big man, and he can't tear his eyes away as Simon leans in and whispers something into your ear.

He doesn't hear what is said, but whatever it is has your shoulders softening and your lips curving upward the tiniest bit.

A beer is suddenly on the table in front of him, pulling him from his espionage.

Two more drinks are placed on the table, one in front of you and one in front of Simon as Price and Soap return.

With a soft groan, Price takes a seat in the chair next to Simon, forcing Soap to take the last empty seat between you and Gaz.

You eye the beverage in front of you warily as the two younger men start chatting quietly to each other. The two men on your other side fall into easy conversation as well, discussing their plans to get everyone back home quickly and efficiently.

This leaves you to your thoughts, and the glass in front of you.

Cautiously, you pick the glass up, glancing at the men quickly to see if they're watching. If this is a test that you've failed.

They're all still focused on their conversations, not one eye on you.

Feeling a little bit steadier, you bring the glass to your lips and take a slow sip, face screwing up in disgust at the taste.

Glancing around once more to make sure you're still unnoticed, you set the glass back down then sit back in your seat.

Soft music starts suddenly, and you whip your head around to find the source.

In the corner of the small bar sit two men, each with a guitar in hand.

You turn your body a bit to face them, watching as they strum at the strings, fingers moving this way and that.

They sing in a language that you don't understand, words you can't fully hear, but it's beautiful.

It's like nothing you've ever experienced before.

Suddenly it dawns on you.

This is it.

This is freedom.

The war is over for the people as much as it is for you.

Your senses devour everything they can.

From the smell of alcohol and smoked meat, to the array of candles casting a warm glow over the few patrons, to the men singing and playing music.

Your heart feels full and warm and you fight tears as you trace every shadow, every nose, every single chair.

There aren't many people besides your table in the bar, but the ones who are here are the happiest people you think you've ever seen.

As they drink and speak in their native language, they are full of laughter and smiles. Hope floats through the air with the dust and debris, sprinkling into their drinks and collecting in their ash trays.

Though the majority of the country fled, there are still those who remained. The ones who couldn't leave. Those who will now need to rebuild their lives. Plan for their futures.

And so will you.

The song changes to something a little bit slower, softer, and you feel Simon's hand slide over your shoulder.

"When do we leave?" You ask quietly, politely bringing your lips to his ear.

He squeezes your arm then nudges you to turn your head.

His breath is warm against the shell of your ear, balaclava pushed up to his nose as he drinks.

"Quit pouting."

You cross your arms over your chest and frown at him.

"I can't pout, I can't be mean, I can't leave. What can I do?"

As if on cue, Soap clears his throat behind you.

"Could I bother ya for a dance?" He asks, voice soft and kind.

You glance over at him then back at Simon just as quickly with your eyes wide, only to find the man smiling down at you.

"That's what you can do. You can dance with Johnny."

You quickly shake your head no and look back at Soap.

"No. I do not know how."

Simon's hand slides from your shoulder down to your waist and then slightly lower.

"Good thing Johnny's a good teacher, then." With a pinch to your rear, Simon ends the conversation and turns back to Price.

Grinding your teeth together, you rise to your feet and allow Soap to take your hand and lead you to an area of the bar with fewer tables obstructing the floor, a bit closer to the music.

He holds your hand gently in one of his, using the other to bring your own hand up to his shoulder. He rests his hand on your hip then slowly starts to sway you to the music.

It's a little clumsy at first, and your eyes are glued to your feet as you try to mimic what he's doing.

After only a few missteps, you get the hang of it, so much so that you raise your eyes to his shoulder.

"Look at that, you're a natural," he says lightly.

You say nothing, only keep your eyes focused on a loose string at the neckline of his shirt.

Swallowing hard, he decides to try a different tactic.

"Do you know this song?" He asks.

"No."

He nods, glancing over at the men playing.

"I didn't know it before I came here either. The locals call it 'The Apology Song'. I... thought it was fittin'."

You say nothing, but your eyes meet his for a brief moment before dropping back to his shoulder.

He sighs and finally decides to stop beating around the bush.

"I'm not askin' for forgiveness, I just wanna apologize. I said some... nasty things and I made some nasty claims and... I'm sorry."

Finally, you speak.

"I don't understand why."

He's pleasantly surprised. He thought you'd yell at him, curse him up and down for what he did. It's nothing less than he deserves.

Or, on the other hand, he thought you'd say nothing at all and he'd have to endure the painful silence for the rest of the song.

"We don't exactly know you," he tries to explain, "S'hard for us to trust someone we don't know."

You shake your head at him, "I saved your life."

He says nothing. Because he knows you're right.

"Ghost trust me. Is that not enough?" You ask quietly, your voice breaking the tiniest bit.

You take a breath and swallow the lump in your throat.

The last thing you want to do is cry in front of him again. Not when tonight is supposed to be happy.

"It should've been," he agrees.

"Why did you do it? Why was it so... so easy?"

He shakes his head, "it wasn't."

You only snort at this, glaring at him.

"I felt like I had to," he clarifies, "I was scared."

"Of what."

"You."

This cracks some of your anger and you look up at him, bewildered.

"Me? Why me? I... I have nothing, I am... nothing." The words are whispered and he feels his heart ache at the honesty you pour into them.

"No you're not. You're everything. To him," He nods over to the table where Simon and Price are at the table with Gaz. "And he's made that very clear," Soap finishes.

A smile curls on Simon's mouth when his eyes find yours, and you can't help the shy grin that finds your own face.

"That man has been through hell and back twice over. The last thing I want is for him to hafta go through it again. And if you were the rat-"

"I wasn't," you interrupt.

"I know that now. And I can see that... he's happy with you. I don't think I've ever seen him this happy."

He stops his sentence there but the unspoken words are loud and clear as if he shouted them into a microphone.

'If you harm his happiness, I'll hurt you.'

You frown and look up at him.

"Ghost... is my happy," you begin, "I would never ever hurt my happy."

You step the tiniest bit closer to him and drop your voice to a whisper.

"If you ever try to take it from me again... you I will hurt. And I will enjoy."

The relaxed composure you use when talking about hurting him frightens him for a moment.

From the way you overpowered him in the elevator to the gruesome slaying of Corporal Jacobs, he somehow knows you're very much telling the truth.

"Yeah, I don't doubt that. You already have."

You frown, shaking your head.

"First time was accident."

"When you saved my life?" He clarifies.

You nod quickly.

"Second time you deserve," you add after a moment.

He scoffs quietly, his shoulders lifting slightly when he sees the gleam of amusement in your eyes.

"I won't disagree with you there."

A warm hand finds your back and you jump, turning to the source.

"Mind if I take over?"

A shiver races down your spine at the mere sound of his voice, and he grins knowingly when Soap steps aside.

Simon pulls you in closer than his friend did, pressing you against his body gently while his hand splays on your lower back. His other hand holds yours softly like it's made of glass, and you instinctively rest your head on his chest.

From the table, the three men watch as the two of you fit together like two pieces of a puzzle.

Simon sways you gently to the music, holding you with such tenderness and care that Price drops his eyes, not wanting to intrude on something so... intimate.

Soap and Gaz, however, don't share that sentiment.

They watch as if hypnotized as the man who's killed more people than they can count, relaxes with another person, a woman, in his arms.

They watch as he uses a gentle softness with you, one they didn't know he possessed.

They watch as you tilt your head back, a soft laugh falling from your lips while Simon grins, pleased with himself.

They watch as it happens. As your eyes meet Simon's and it's like the world stops. Like all that's around the two of you is put on pause, and all that exists in that moment is the feeling, thick and tangible in the air, as your gazes meet.

Without so much as a twitch of the lip, the two of you have a conversation. The two of you share stories and histories, fears and dreams, confessions of devotion and forgiveness.

Gaz tears his eyes away from the two of you, guilt gnawing at him for watching something so sacred.

Soap, however, can't.

His eyes are glued to the two of you. You, more specifically.

He's bewitched, cursed almost. Your face holds such softness as you gaze up at his friend, such love.

How could he have ever believed you were the rat?

You with your shy nods and soft smiles whenever Simon drops his lips to whisper something in your ear.

Sweet little thing, all you've done wrong was get involved with his Lieutenant, he can't fault a little mouse like you for that.

He's reminded of weeks ago when they went to free you from that cell. How... feral you looked.

Though you were down there for only a couple of days, it was enough to bring your deepest darkest traumas to the surface for all to see.

He remembers the empty look in your haunted eyes, the desperation and fear in your voice.

The very thought of it ices his veins.

Finally, he drops his gaze down to his drink, allowing the two of you a soft and brief moment of privacy.

You lean your head against Simon's chest once more, sighing softly as his scent surrounds you.

The music fills the would-be silence, and he can't help but press his lips to the top of your head.

"We'll be leavin' tomorrow, Mouse. And then it'll be jus' you an' me."

A smile pulls at your lips and you tilt your head back to look at him.

"We go home?"

He nods, leaning down to bump his nose against yours.

"We're going home."

[uvobreakmylegs]

Trap

inspired from that one scene from the film The House That Jack Built (tho reader gets a better outcome, all things considered)

Kishibe x female!reader

Warnings: noncon, smut, fingering, groping, kidnapping, captivity, sexual harassment, mentions of gore, mentions of death

Word Count: 13.9k

The bar that you worked at just so happened to be situated close to the main office of the devil hunters, and as a result, a fair amount of your clientele were those same people who worked in Public Safety, usually the ones that were just getting off work and were in desperate need of a drink after spending a work shift witnessing countless horrors.

Despite your job as a bartender not coming close in terms of what they went through, you saw a lot just from witnessing the state they were in when you served them: the exhaustion that had seeped into their bones after they would sat down and the far-off gazes as they relived whatever fresh hell they'd been through before downing the rest of their drinks before calling you for another. Sometimes there were even entrails that covered them which you needed to clean up; it was only possible to do so once you held a spare rag up to your mouth and nose while keeping the dustpan as far away from you as possible before you deposited the remains in the dumpster at the back, after which you would quickly scurry away, eager to escape the awful smell.

It'd be easy to be annoyed with them for things like that, but you kept yourself in line by reminding yourself that they were the ones killing the devils so people like you could live in relative safety. If the price for that was sometimes needing to clean up something gross, you could live with that.

And certainly the last thing the exhausted hunters needed was someone nagging at them about a mess.

You got used to the changing faces, of those who either left or those who had died in the line of duty. More often than not, they simply stopped coming in with no explanation, which was a good indication that they were dead, as the ones who would quit usually ended up telling you their life story: why they got into devil hunting, what had happened since that point and why they now wanted to leave. You would listen – they didn't really want much engagement from you, just for someone to hear them out. At the end of it, the hunter would usually slam down their glass and declare that they were going to quit before heading out the door and you never saw them again.

Though there were often times when they would softly put down their empty glass and decide that they needed to keep with it despite the hardship. The irony that followed was that sometimes those hunters who decided to keep going didn't come in after that.

Even though you could make a good guess as to what had likely happened, you preferred to tell yourself that they had changed their mind immediately after and decided to quit after all. Even if it was a lie you were telling yourself, it was nicer to imagine a happy outcome for them, a future that they could – and should – have had.

And the faces at the bar continued to change.

Except for one.

Kishibe.

During the entirety of your year and a half of working at the bar, the biggest constant was the man who called himself the strongest devil hunter and who always, always came in for a drink once his shift had finally ended.

He was an odd one, to say the least. In terms of looks, he stood out almost immediately from the other devils hunters in large part due to his blonde hair and the recognizable scar that ran from the corner of his mouth and across his left cheek. And in terms of what he was like as a person, from what you could see, his monotone way of speaking and his quiet demeanor was deemed to be unsettling to most who interacted with him. He was also constantly drinking, as on more than one occasion you saw him take a swig of that flask he always carried around right as he entered the bar and then again when he left. That, combined with how much he drank at what became his designated seat at the bar, left you thinking that the fact that his liver was still functioning at his age was nothing short of a miracle.

Speaking to him had been weird at first. You had assumed that he would be like the other hunters who came in on their own, the ones who were in a bad place and were trying to drown out the turbulent feelings inside of them by way of harsh liquor. Those ones didn't want to talk; they just wanted a drink and for you to leave them alone until they needed a refill. With your experience with other hunters and the general vibe that surrounded Kishibe, it seemed like the safest choice to keep your distance from him.

But despite your attempts at creating that space, Kishibe turned out to be eager for a chat whenever you were around.

Though the topics the two of you could discuss were limited, you slowly found yourself warming up to the veteran hunter the more you spoke with him. While it was hard to tell what Kishibe was feeling in general, the fact that he continued to seek out your company told you that, at the very least, he found you to be tolerable. Tolerable enough to ask you questions that were guaranteed to get him boring answers. You doubted that he cared much about what your day had been like before you arrived for your shift or what the results of your off-day shopping trips were; he must have just wanted to hear something about how the average person's normal day went, one that was free of hunting and killing.

Until he told you to stop or he didn't bother to ask anymore, you were happy to oblige.

At that moment, Kishibe was on his third drink, staring down at the dark liquid within the glass with the same blank expression that was always on his face. Just like the other devil hunters that were currently in the bar, he was finished for the day and was getting a few drinks before he'd head home. Though with Kishibe it definitely wouldn't be just a few, and it wouldn't end with whatever he got at the bar.

It was relatively quiet at the moment with the small bits of chatter throughout the room being contained to the tables where the other patrons sat, so there was no need to raise your voice when you spoke to him.

“Kill a lot of devils today?” you asked.

Kishibe glanced up at you before returning his gaze to the glass.

“No, nothing like that today,” he said.

“Oh? Then were you training new recruits again?”

“Some of that,” he answered plainly, “but today I was mostly dealing with paperwork.”

“Ah.”

While you weren't inclined to say paperwork was the worst thing to deal with considering that the man killed monsters for a living, you could easily see how trudging through documents and filling out papers could be an exceptionally mind numbing experience.

“I guess it's too bad that being the best devil hunter doesn't exempt you from the boring parts of the job,” you said.

He shrugged.

“It's something that inevitably comes with any sort of job,” Kishibe told you, raising the glass to his lips after.

You leaned your elbow on the surface of the bar as you asked “did the training with your students go well at least?”

“No,” he answered bluntly.

“Oh. Why not?”

Kishibe waited to reply as he took another swig of his drink before saying “they're motivated by money, which is the worst reason to join Public Safety. Not only that, but they're hopelessly weak as well, which makes training them even more of a waste of time.”

“But the point of training them is to make them stronger, right?” you asked.

“There's no point because they're not cut out for it.”

“Is that you saying that they're not crazy enough?”

“It is.”

“Ah.”

You'd heard him say that before. About how the only people who can make it as devil hunters are the crazy ones and anyone who was too sane was little more than cannon fodder. His words.

Whether or not what he was saying was correct wasn't something you could really judge, but considering how long he'd been at that job, it was possible that there just might be some truth to what he was saying, though you doubted anyone else at Public Safety would be willing to agree with his statement out loud.

“Well,” you began, “maybe they'll surprise you. Maybe they just need a bit more time.”

“Doubtful. You either are cut out for devil hunting or you aren't. And these ones aren't,” said Kishibe.

He took a cursory glance across the room before he added “they'd be more suitable for a job like this one.”

Then he looked back to you as he asked “you need any new workers?”

You shook your head.

“Unfortunately we're all good on staff, so I don't think we can take any of them,” you answered jokingly.

“I see.”

He brought the glass back up to his lips as he said “then I guess they'll be dead soon enough.”

Kishibe spoke those words in that same monotone voice, while part of you wanted to believe that he was just a fan of dark humor, you knew him well enough by now to know that he meant what he said. Whoever these students were, they must have been massively under-performing for his opinion of them to be so low.

“Have you tried talking to them about that?” you then asked.

“I have. They just see it as motivation to prove me wrong,” he said, “I'm not going to bother if all it does it encourage stupid behavior.”

“And you can't speak to anyone higher up about your concerns?”

“Very few apply to work at Public Safety in general, so they'll accept anyone without question.”

“They're that desperate for hunters?”

Kishibe nodded.

You smiled, taking the opportunity to joke as you said “maybe I should apply then, especially if they don't care much about someone's background. It'd probably pay better than what I get from this place.”

In response to that, Kishibe gave you a long, hard look, his glass held in midair as he stared at you. Though his expression remained neutral, you got the sense that he wasn't amused.

“…. I was joking,” you said, “I know that I'm not up for killing devils.”

Just like that, the slight bit of tension that had fallen on the two of you dissipated. and the air felt light once again.

“That's good,” he told you, bringing the glass to his lips before saying “you're smart in knowing your limits.”

“Unlike your students?”

“Yeah.”

With one last swig, he drained what was in the glass. The veteran devil hunter then set it down closer to you, silently asking you for a refill. You obliged, grabbing the nearby bottle you had opened for him earlier and filling up the glass until it reached the brim.

As you put the bottle back on the shelf and while he lifted the glass to his lips once again, you commented “it is nice that you're trying to look out for them.”

He stopped what he was doing, raising an eyebrow in question.

“Even though what you're saying doesn't seem all that kind, you must really be worried about them if you're that insistent that they need to quit,” you clarified, “I can only imagine how tired you are of seeing those white grave markers multiplying every time you go to that graveyard.”

The expression on his face remained blank after you said that, which, of course, made it hard to read just how he felt about your statement. But when he averted his gaze and took that sip of his newly poured drink, you took it to mean that you were correct.

Kishibe was pretty open, after all. If you were wrong, he would have said so. You felt certain of that.

“But maybe don't give up on them just yet,” you added, “like I said, they might surprise you.”

“….. I'll consider it.”

You smiled at that. That was as big of a win that you could get when it came to Kishibe, who no doubt had an issue of being stubborn due to age.

You really hoped those students would be able to prove him wrong.

There wasn't any more time to dwell on the matter, however, as a few more men walked in at that moment and took their seats at the bar, waiting to be served. The small moment that you had to chat with your most regular customer had come to a close, at least for now. Even if Kishibe spent a lot when he visited the bar, you would get in trouble if you ignored other customers in favor of speaking with him.

Even if this wasn't the greatest job in the world, you didn't want to face the terror of unemployment.

…. Was there such a thing as an unemployment devil? You'd need to ask Kishibe later, if you remembered.

It picked up quite a bit after that, with a more steady stream of patrons filling the seats and orders for drinks flowing in. As such, you were too busy to continue any form of conversation with Kishibe; the most words that were shared between the two of you were your affirmations when he called you over to refill his glass. And the hours would manage to pass in that way.

It was the same way it usually went. Another busy night where your feet would definitely be aching by the time you got back home.

It was near the end of your shift when Kishibe called you over to ask for his bill, settling up before he headed out for the night, presumably to wherever it was he called 'home'. The time he did so was as usual, as was the rather high bill he had racked up during the hours he'd spent chugging down drinks. He barely reacted to the high amount you had printed out for him, his face staying as blank as always as he fished out the amount needed from his wallet.

“Heading home?” you asked him.

“In a bit,” he said, “need to take care of something first.”

“I hope it's not work related; I doubt you'd be in any condition for late night devil murdering.”

“Even if it was, I'd be fine.”

You raised your eyebrows at that, but otherwise said nothing to disagree with him. If he noticed that reaction of yours, he chose not to comment on it as he handed you what he owed.

“You get off soon, don't you?” he then asked.

“Yeah, why?” you asked back absentmindedly as you placed the money in the register.

“Did you walk or drive here?”

“Oh, I usually walk,” you answered, “my place isn't too far away.”

“Will you be alright heading home by yourself at this hour?”

You smiled as you nodded at him, answering “I'll be fine. I've walked that route dozens of times and I've never had any issues. Plus, there's hardly anyone around this time of night.”

Kishibe nodded slowly once you answered, and while he spoke again just to say “that's good, then”, he said it more to himself than to you.

Shutting the register, you looked back to him as you asked “but what about you? Are you walking? I feel like it'd be dangerous if you got behind the wheel of a car right now.”

“I usually walk, too,” he told you, “both the business I need to take care of and my place are close enough.”

“I see. Well, I hope you have a good rest of your night.”

“Same to you.”

With nothing else to be said, Kishibe began to make his way out of the bar, remaining surprisingly steady as he walked to the door. You weren't sure if his tolerance for alcohol was something else, or if he was just really really good at pretending to be sober.

As he walked out, you noted the reactions of the other devil hunters as he passed them by. A majority of the ones who were still present stiffened when he did so, conversations turning quiet until he was out of earshot. Some were clearly nervous with him being so close. And then there were others who looked at him, trying to make eye contact so they could have some small bit of a good interaction in wishing him well for the night by way of a brief farewell.

Kishibe didn't pay attention to any of them, and when the door shut behind him, the visible tension in the nervous hunters lessened instantly, a collective sigh of relief hitting them.

Seeing that sort of reaction was another thing that had felt weird at first.

Despite the fact that he was constantly drinking, none of the other devil hunters regarded Kishibe as being an old drunken fool as you might have expected. Conversations would quiet down once he walked through the doors, anyone who had begun to get a little too rowdy cutting it out the moment they realized he was there. Kishibe wasn't interested in interacting with any of them, however. Once he had sat down, his only focus was on downing the many drinks he would order while he made conversation with you.

Those sorts of reactions were probably due to the respect that the other devil hunters felt for him. But it was respect mixed with something else:

Fear.

As you only ever saw Kishibe within the small space of the bar, you had no idea what he was truly like when he was out hunting devils. While you could make a guess of how strong he was based on his general aura and the way the others regarded him, you were limited to him when he was in that seat chugging down drinks like no tomorrow.

There was only time where you had gotten an inkling as to what he was capable of, and you hadn't even been around to witness it.

A while back and on a rare night where Kishibe was absent, a devil hunter who was relatively new to the job and had only recently started going to the bar with his colleagues made an impulsive decision when he was tipsy and had smacked you on the ass as you were walking by his table. The hit had been so hard and unexpected that you ended up dropping a tray full of drinks, and the glasses you'd been carrying shattered on the floor alongside the spilled liquor.

When you told the guy to get out he scoffed at you, and at that moment there wasn't much you could do other than clean up the mess while one of your coworkers got a refill for the orders that had spilled. By the time all of that was done, the group the guy had been with had left, one of the others paying for their bill while the guy snickered at you. That, along with the way your boss had berated you after for spilling the drinks despite your explanation, had caused that night to be a bad one for you. It was bad enough that it was still affecting you the next day, leaving you somber through your shift.

Kishibe noticed your mood almost immediately, and after some prying on his part, you told him what had happened. After getting the full story, his expression stayed level as it always did, and it made you sad as you thought that didn't care about what had happened to you.

But then he asked you for a description of the man who had hit you as well as the ones who had accompanied him. That had surprised you, but you still gave him the information he wanted. Kishibe left soon after and much earlier in the night than he usually did.

Truthfully, you hadn't expected much to come from any of it. Maybe at most the bar owner would receive a letter of apology and some small bit of compensation for the spilled drinks as well as the group promising to be on better behavior. And even then, you weren't really interested in any of that. All you had really wanted was for someone to agree that the entire situation was unfair for you. Kishibe hadn't even done that, so your somber mood remained even after your shift ended.

You weren't expecting to see the guy who'd hit you so soon after that.

A few days later, shortly after you had come in, the devil hunter who had so brazenly smacked you entered the bar and gave you a formal apology, promising that he would never bother you again. The entire thing was very short, as he didn't bother making any excuses or tried to blame his actions on the alcohol. He simply apologized, left an envelope full of money as compensation for what you had dropped and then exited the bar.

Despite his apology to you, he couldn't look you in the face, and there was a distinct haunted look in his gaze as he stared at anything other than you, as though he was terrified of making direct eye contact you.

Neither that man or the group he had been with ever entered the bar again, and when Kishibe came in that same evening, he didn't mention anything. You didn't ask about it, either. Whatever it was that he had done to get that result, you decided that you didn't want to know just in case the answer was something that would keep you up at night. Even if it wasn't something gruesome or morally questionable, it was simply easier to pretend that the incident hadn't happened.

At least those previously rowdy devil hunters were a bit more well-behaved from that point onward.

Late on the next Tuesday night, you found yourself alone as you were the last one clocking out, and therefore the one who needed to do the final clean up and shutting down of the bar. Luckily for you, Tuesdays were always slow and there was never much of a mess to take care of, so despite the late hour you were in good spirits as you exited the building, locking the door at the back while you thought of what you were going to do from here.

Your thoughts went to a new video game you had bought, having only had enough time to play a little bit before you had started your shift that day. While normally you may have felt the current time was too late for something like that, you had tomorrow off, so it didn't feel like a horrible idea to stay up late on your computer. It was very likely that all of your day off would be dedicated to playing the game.

But you were jumping too far ahead. You hadn't even gotten to tomorrow yet, you told yourself. Focus on getting home right now.

You walked along quiet streets as you did just that, at one point zipping your hoodie fully up as the chill of the night air was more uncomfortable than you were expecting. At least you wouldn't need to be out here long, though you still bemoaned the fact that you had forgotten to bring your gloves with you. The only solution you had was stuffing your hands into your pockets in an effort to keep them warm.

As was expected for how late it was, the street you were walking on was virtually abandoned. Any people that you did catch sight of could only be seen on adjacent streets that you passed, all of whom were minding their own business as they hastily made their way to wherever they needed to be. You were in the same camp as they were, and your pace increased as all you wanted in that moment was to get home where you'd be able to relax and unwind.

One walkway you passed by was particularly loud, and you caught sight of a group of businessmen who were chatting with one another. From what you could see, they had been out drinking. Socializing for work, more than likely.

So it wasn't a surprise when you rounded the corner of a turn you needed to make and you saw what at first appeared to be another businessman in the distance, moving about oddly as he towards you. With the distance between the two of you and the fact that you had only spared him a brief glance at first, you assumed that he was one with that group, making his way back for one reason or another.

But as the person was walking in your direction, you were compelled to look up at him as he came closer.

It wasn't a businessman at all.

And as the picture before you became clearer as the person continued walking towards you, your pace slowed before you came to a stop as recognition turned to confusion upon realizing just who it was on the path before you.

Your most loyal regular at the bar, Kishibe, was out on the sidewalk by himself. His height, hair and the scar on his face made it easy to identify him. That he was out at night wasn't much of a surprise, but what made you confused was the fact that he was stumbling, barely able to keep himself upright as he went forward. The only explanation for him to move in such a way was that he was drunk.

You were in disbelief. How was that even possible? You'd seen that man consume enough alcohol that it should've been fatal and it had never affected him, yet now he wasn't even able to walk in a straight line – just how fucking much did he have to drink to get that way?

When he nearly fell to the pavement was when you snapped out of your stupor.

Holy fuck

“Kishibe!”

You ran over to where he was leaning against an adjacent wall, lightly placing your hand on his back as a way to help steady him while you asked “are you alright?”

He turned his head to look at you, and after a moment, he shook his head.

“Let me lean on you,” he mumbled.

Taking hold of one of his arms, you did your best to keep him standing as he got his feet firmly beneath him.

“Do you need to go to the hospital? I can call an ambulance,” you said.

“Hospital? No,” he answered, “just get me back to my apartment.”

“I don't know where that is.”

By that point he had his arm over your shoulder, though he was swaying far more than you were comfortable with. Still shaken by how he had nearly fallen moments ago and worried that he could still end up tumbling onto the pavement, you ended up grabbing ahold of his waist in an attempt to keep him steady. Although if he was really going to fall, you had a bad feeling that he would just end up taking you down with him.

You really hoped that wouldn't happen; ending your night by having one or both of you getting a concussion was something you wanted to avoid.

Kishibe had reached a hand into his pocket and had pulled out his cellphone, his fingers seemingly not cooperating when he attempted to put in his passcode. After a few failed attempts at unlocking it, the screen turned brighter as he got in and within a few moments, he had typed in an address and held it in front you.

Your mind blanked before you took the phone from him with an “okay.”

Looking at the screen, you found that the location put in was only fifteen minutes away from where you currently stood. That wasn't too bad, but as you glanced over again to Kishibe and the state he was in, you worried that the short walk would be too much for him right now. If he lost his balance again you didn't think you had the strength to keep him up on your own, and if he passed out there was no way you'd be able to drag him to his apartment. Plus if he hurt himself you'd probably need to call an ambulance, which would be a whole other mess that would likely see you waiting in the hospital for hours.

“Are you sure you want to walk there? With how you're doing right now, I think it might be better if we call a ride for you,” you told him.

“No.”

“But the idea of you walking seems dangerous.”

“You really think anyone will let me into their car with how I am now?” he countered.

Ah. That was true. Kishibe was only still standing up right now because you were supporting him. And not only was he unsteady, but he also reeked of alcohol. Any driver would see him and refuse to let him in out of fear that they'd need to clean his vomit out of their car afterwards.

So the only option was to walk him back?

….. This sucks.

It was late, you'd been on your feet for hours, your fingers were still numb from the cold and you were tired. You'd been looking forward to your plans for when you got back and yet you needed to be the one to deal with this?

Despite saying none of that out loud, Kishibe seemed perceptive to what you were thinking as he said “I know it's inconvenient, but I'd appreciate it if you would help me out.”

“…..”

…. Well now you felt like an asshole.

Kishibe needed help and you were trying to get out of it, and now he was aware that you were trying to get out of it. The fact that he needed to push to get you to help him wasn't good at all. And all of it was just so you could go home and play a video game?

Why were you like this?

With that, you forced a smile onto your face as you said “of course. It's only a short walk, right?”

He nodded.

Readjusting the hold you had on him, you kept the smile on your face as you continued with “plus, maybe the walking will help you feel better.”

“Maybe.”

As the you began to walk him back, heading in the direction that was directly opposite of your apartment, you told yourself that this could always be worse. Kishibe wasn't being loud or aggressive, which you appreciated. While you were stuck with his arm around you and the pace at which you traveled was painfully slow, it would have been a lot worse if he'd insisted that you help him while also being belligerent about it.

At least he was a pretty chill drunk, even if the way he wobbled in your grip still made your stress levels rise every time it felt like he was about to lose his balance.

“If you need to stop to rest a little, we can do that. Just let me know, okay?”

He nodded after you told him that, but with the vacant stare in his eye, you wondered how much he had really heard.

Oh well.

As the two of you went by the path you had passed previously which was full of the businessmen, you found that it was empty now. Either they were getting more drinks somewhere else or they were going home. Though as you took one last glance in that general area, you caught sight of a tiny bit of movement at the base of the building, your eyebrows furrowing until you realized what you were looking at.

“Gross,” you commented.

“Hm?”

“Cockroach.”

Kishibe hummed in response.

“I'm surprised it's still alive in this weather,” you said, “I would've thought the cold would have gotten to it.”

“They're good at finding ways to survive.”

It was good that he was speaking to you. As you were still worried at the thought of him passing out while in the middle of the way home, you figured that continuing to speak would probably be best; whatever you could think of as long as he stayed lucid enough to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

With the sight of the bug from moments ago, at least there was an easy topic of conversation to have.

“Is there a cockroach devil?” you asked.

He closed his eyes as he nodded slowly.

“We don't have control of it, though,” he then told you.

“Good thing I'm not afraid of cockroaches, then. Wouldn't want to make your enemies stronger,” you said.

You paused as you readjusted the grip you had around his waist before you added “I am pretty scared of spiders, though. Is that an issue?”

“Public Safety has control of the spider devil. If anything, I would encourage you to be more afraid of spiders. That way she'll be stronger,” answered Kishibe.

“Okay,” you answered, laughing a little as you said “though maybe I don't want to be too afraid of them. It'd be a different kind of issue if she became too tough and decided to run off to do her own thing, right?”

He shook his head.

“That's impossible.”

“Why's that?”

“Because if she tried that, I'd hunt her down and take her out,” he said simply.

“You're sure you'd be successful with that?” you asked.

“Of course. I'm the strongest devil hunter there is,” Kishibe told you.

“That might be true,” you said, “but if a devil were to come for you as you are right now, I'm worried you wouldn't be able to do much.”

“I'd handle it.”

“…. You can't even walk on your own.”

“I'd handle it,” he insisted.

Despite his tone, you were skeptical. After all, you were the only one keeping him upright at that moment. Still, it was better to let it go. Just treat it like you're at work, you told yourself. Work that you wouldn't be getting paid for, but work nonetheless. Even though this wasn't the way you wanted your night to end, reminding yourself that you had the day off tomorrow helped in making you feel better about it.

Walking to Kishibe's apartment took about an extra eight minutes due to his slow pace, and there was only so much you could do to get him to move faster while still being polite about it. If only you had the strength to pick him up and carry him, it could've gone so much faster.

At the very least it would have made for a funny scene, at least from an outsider's perspective.

You did your best to stay positive, and you continued to ask him questions as a way to make sure he was still conscious as you escorted him back home. Though after your conversation about the spider devil, Kishibe only answered in grunts or hums, but at least he was still able to answer you. That was a good thing, at least. As long as he was conscious and able to continue walking, that was good.

When you caught sight of Kishibe's apartment building and noted the tall flights of stairs that decorated the sides, you frowned. And when you asked him which floor you needed to get him too, you groaned internally when he answered that his unit was on the fourth floor.

Of course you needed to get him up several flights of stairs.

You didn't want to think about just how long it took the two of you to get up the stairs, nor did you want to think about the times you needed to help him lift up his own feet so he could ascend those stairs with you. By the time you reached the door of his unit, you felt well and truly exhausted from the ordeal, and you wanted nothing more than for him to unlock the door and go inside so you could go back home.

Except Kishibe handed you the key to his door.

Of course it couldn't be that simple.

You couldn't even get him to go in on his own, as when you turned the handle and opened the door to his unit, his weight suddenly bore down on you, pushing you into the darkened apartment with him following after and only managing to regain his footing once he was inside. Even then he stumbled backwards after, his arm hitting the open door and forcing it back shut when he fell against it.

“Are you okay?!���All you heard in response to your worried question was a grunt that seemed like he was trying to indicate 'yes', which lessened your panic a little, though it'd be nicer to be able to see him. In the pitch dark of the apartment, you reached for a nearby wall as you searched for a light switch. After several moments of blindly pressing your hand all over the surface of the wall, you found it, and you needed to shut your eyes once the overhead light turned on as you needed to adjust to the sudden brightness.

Once you were able to see, what greeted you was what appeared to be a sparsely decorated apartment that only seemed rather ominous as the rest of the lights within the space had also been left off. From what you were able to see in your current position, you caught sight of a darkened living room area, and beyond that, a sliding door that opened up to small balcony. There was a couch in the living room, right? You could just leave him there, couldn't you?

Please let me leave now, you silently begged.

“Could you get me to the bedroom?”

Despite how he mumbled his words, you heard him clearly. Looking back to where you'd left him, you were dismayed to find that he was still drunk out of his mind. He still had his back leaning against the surface of the door, and it seemed that was all that was keeping him upright. With the way he was blocking the way out, it meant you'd need to move him, and more than likely you'd need to escort him further, this time to his bedroom.

Once you saw him at your next shift at the bar, you'd need to ask what exactly he'd done to get himself that fucked up. That, or maybe he could just give you a really nice tip for all of the effort spent getting him home safe.

But you made yourself smile at him as you said “sure. Just hang on for a second, okay? I'm gonna turn on some lights so the two of us aren't stumbling around in the dark. I'll be right back.”

A pair of hazy looking dark eyes glanced in your direction after you spoke, and he nodded in understanding. With that, you placed both his phone and the keys to the apartment on a small table that sat in the small hallway before slipping off your shoes and making your way further into his unit. It took a few tries, more than a few moments of turning on light switches before you hastily turned them off once you saw that you had entered a room that you didn't need, but not long after you found what you were looking for: the bed Kishibe needed to pass out on top of.

The bedroom matched the apartment in that it looked rather plain, almost like Kishibe didn't spend a lot of time here. It made sense; with how much he must have on his plate as a devil hunter he probably didn't have the time to decorate his living space. He just needed some place where he could eat, clean himself and then sleep soundly at the end of each day before he returned to his work.

The queen sized bed did look – and feel – rather nice, you felt compelled to note. He must have spent a lot on that to have a good night's sleep.

With your goal of finding where you needed to take him achieved, you returned to the main hallway to retrieve Kishibe. He was where you left him, once more looking dazed as he stared down at the floor beneath his feet. Your gaze traveled down as well, and when you saw the tied up laces of his shoes, you came to a realization.

“Are you going to be able to untie those?” you asked, pointing down at them.

“Probably not.”

At this point you weren't able to be annoyed; it wasn't entirely unexpected given his current state. Just another thing you needed to take care of for him, but at least it wouldn't be as difficult as helping him stumble his way up the stairs.

Do a few things more to help him and then you can go home.

Kneeling down on the surface of the entryway, you reached for the laces of one of his shoes. He didn't say anything as you undid the knots. When you asked him to lift his foot up once they were loosened, he did as you told him and you pulled the shoe off of him, placing it down and out of the way before repeating the process with the other. Again, he said nothing, but you felt those blank brown eyes staring down at you the entire time.

After getting his shoes off, you gently grabbed him by his shoulder and moved him away from the door. Immediately he was back to leaning on you, this time with his nose in your hair. You could feel his breath on your head, followed by the sound of his voice as he let out a content hum.

This was so fucking awkward. He definitely owed you after this.

“Kishibe,” you began, “just a little more walking and then you can rest, okay?”

He grunted again as you once again led him while his weight bore down on you.

With his face still in your hair, you heard the moment when, in the middle of making your way to the bedroom, he inhaled deeply. The sound of that and the feeling forced you to come to a stop.

And after letting out a short breath, you continued to walk with him.

He's drunk, you told yourself. Extremely shit-faced, over the top blackout drunk. He probably wouldn't remember any of this come tomorrow, and while you weren't enjoying this, it'd be better to keep your relationship with him positive. You didn't need to mention any of the creepy parts; just how much you had done to help him.

He'd better be appreciative.

A feeling relief washed over you when you finally got him into the bedroom, the bed only a few feet away.

Pulling forward, you saw this as the final hurdle. Just get him onto the bed. That was all you needed to do, and then you could go home and collapse onto your own not-as-comfortable mattress that had been all you could afford.

You tried to move him so he would lay down on his back, and then you could gently let him go. You didn't really want to bother trying to get him actually into the bed; that seemed like it would take even more time and would be even more of a hassle. No, just getting him on there was enough.

“Alright, here we go.”

Kishibe was supposed to let go as you maneuvered him in front of you. Once he felt the edge of the mattress against the back of his legs, he should've understood that he was safe to fall backwards and that he needed to let you go.

But the arm he had wrapped around your back stayed in place, and when gravity finally won the battle and began to pull him down, you were brought down with him.

A short cry escaped your lips as you ended up on the bed with him, pressed tightly to his chest with your lower half hanging off the mattress.

Goddammit

“I'm sorry,” you began, “I didn't mean for that to happen.”

“Hm.”

You weren't sure of what to make of the way he hummed when you said that, largely because all you wanted in that moment was to get off of him. Bracing your arm on the mattress, you pushed your weight onto it as you tried to get off of him and escape the awkward situation.

Only the arm he had around you wasn't budging.

When a few moments passed with you desperately trying to leave the bed only to have your efforts thwarted by the surprisingly strong grip he had on you, you looked back to him as you asked “Kishibe, could you let me go? I can't get up.”

“Why do you want to get up?” he asked.

“Um, because I need to go home?” you said, surprised that you even needed to clarify that.

“It's late; you should spend the night here.”

“That's okay. I'm sure your couch is comfortable, but I'd really rather sleep in my own bed,” you told him.

“Who said anything about you sleeping on the couch?”

His question made you blink.

“I…. Where else would I…..”

Your question trailed off as you glanced at the mattress you were currently on top of, and a sick feeling began to form in your stomach. A feeling that grew stronger with every moment that passed with his arm still wrapped around you.

“Kishibe, please let go of me,” you said.

“Why?”

“Because I don't like this and I want to go home.”

Again you tried to pull yourself up, and again, Kishibe kept you pressed to his chest.

“Please,” you said again, “I don't want to spend the night-”

You were cut off when you felt his other hand move. Instead of joining the one wrapped around your back, his free hand went down to cup your ass as he blatantly groped you.

Shock and revulsion shot through you and when you struggled again against the grip he had on you, it was with far more force and desperation.

“Let go of me,” you said, “now!”

Again, he only hummed in response.

But that time he actually did let you go, removing his arms and letting them fall to the mattress.

You pulled off immediately, getting to your feet and taking a few steps back in record time, breathing heavily as the brief burst of adrenaline was still running through you. Kishibe remained splayed out on the bed with his legs still hanging off the side. He was still staring at you, however.

After taking in another deep breath, you spoke.

“Rest up and get sober,” you began, “and then when we see each other next, I'd appreciate it if you could come to the bar with an apology.”

You then turned and walked out the door, deciding to leave it at that. Though you noted to yourself that he may very well not remember what you had said or what had happened. As you had told yourself earlier, he was drunk. But even then you didn't intend to back down on this. Even if he didn't remember, at the very least you deserved some form of the word 'sorry' for how he had held you down and tried to coerce you into sleeping with him. Regardless of if his actions were caused by the alcohol, you needed that after he had ignored you the first few times you had told him to let you go.

As long as you could get that, you'd be happy to go back to how your relationship was before, with him as a customer and with the solid surface of the bar separating the two of you.

Returning to the entryway, you quickly collected your shoes and slipped them back on before you prepared yourself for the walk back home. It was late, but you'd probably be okay as long as you hurried back. You probably didn't have the energy for your game, as you'd thought before, so it'd be straight to bed for you once you returned.

As long as you could get a good night's sleep, that was enough.

With that thought in mind, you stood before the front door as you reached for the handle, turned and then pulled it.

The door didn't budge.

“Huh?”

You tried again, turning it again and pulling, just to have the same thing happen.

Maybe I'm turning the handle wrong, you briefly thought, only for your brows to furrow when your attempts to turn the handle upwards resulted in nothing. That wasn't right. Clearly the way you had been trying was correct.

So why wasn't the door opening?

Taking your gaze away from the handle, you noticed something that you had missed earlier: in place of a bolt or a chain on the upper part of the door, there was instead a lock which required a key to open it. Was that really what was keeping you in here?

… It's okay, you told yourself. You left the keys on the table right behind you. One of those would open it.

Your attempts to quell the bad feeling brewing within you were unsuccessful, as when you turned to reach for the keys that you had placed only minutes earlier, you found that they were gone.

….. Were they still there when you had gone back to get Kishibe after turning on the lights? You couldn't remember.

Speaking of Kishibe, he would be the reason why they were gone, right? Thinking back to when you had been searching for the bedroom, that would have given him more than enough time to take the keys and then lock the door. When else would he have been able to do that?

But why would he do that?

“What exactly am I supposed to apologize for?”

Hearing his voice made you jump, and you turned your gaze towards where Kishibe had emerged from as he strolled out into the hallway at a leisurely pace, ending with him leaning against the wall. His large black coat was gone, leaving him clad in his white shirt, black pants and his tie that he had loosened during the time that you had left him alone. In one hand he held his flask, and he unscrewed it to take a long gulp of whatever was in there before he looked back to you, those same blank eyes staring straight at you as he waited for an answer to his question.

He didn't seem quite so inebriated now. He was walking just fine and his gaze was zeroed in on you.

“…. Kishibe, why is the door locked?” you asked, your eyebrows furrowing as you stood still within the entryway.

“Because I locked it,” he answered plainly.

“Wh-why?”

“Because I don't want you going out.”

The veteran hunter took another swig from his flask before adding “it's dangerous out there, especially at night. You're much safer inside with me.”

“That's….. That's nice, but I'd really rather go home,” you said.

“Why? Is your cheap apartment really that great?”

His comment made you blink in surprise – you'd never mentioned it, so how in the world did he know anything about your apartment?

“I'd feel a lot more comfortable if I could go back there, yeah,” you told him, “so could you please unlock the door? I don't want to be here any longer.”

Kishibe hummed.

“That's too bad. Because I've decided that you'll be staying here from now on,” he declared.

“….. You can't do that.”

“I just did.”

Kishibe stood to his full height, and that was enough to make you back away until you found yourself pressed against the door, holding your hands to your chest as your heart rate increased. What was happening? Why was this happening? He seemed fine now, despite the state he'd been in – had all of that been a ruse just to get you into his apartment?

Why?

“I don't understand.”

Your words came out hushed, barely able to come out around the blockage in your throat.

“You don't? I would've thought understanding it would be pretty simple,” he said.

He stepped forward, closing the distance between you swiftly and with ease as he told you “you're not leaving. I'm keeping you here so you'll be safe.”

“Safe? From what?”

“Everything.”

Kishibe was standing directly before you now, looming over you as he continued with “humans, devils and whatever else; you won't need to fear them anymore. Nothing will come for you as long as you have me.”

He reached a hand up in a move that looked as though he intended to cup your cheek as he said “all I ask in return is that you do as I say.”

The rough skin of his hands made contact with your cheek as you said nothing in response.

You needed this to be a joke.

You needed to him to take a few more moments for comedic effect before he revealed that he wasn't being serious, be that in the form of the words “just kidding” or “gotcha” or something that told you that the reality of the situation wasn't what you thought it was. Even though this entire scenario was completely abnormal for Kishibe, a man who always seemed serious, you needed him to tell you that it was just a fucked up prank, that he just wanted to mess with you.

It didn't feel in line with the man you had grown to know, but you needed that to be the case.

Except Kishibe never said such a thing to you, instead keeping his hand on your cheek and softly rubbing against your skin, his calloused touch feeling surprisingly gentle.

His thumb then moved across your bottom lip and that sent a jolt down your spine.

You pushed his hand away as you said “this isn't funny.”

“It's not supposed to be,” he told you.

You shook your head.

“You're being weird and you're playing a prank or something stupid like that, but I don't like this and I want to leave.”

Kishibe only hummed at that, which only left you feeling worse.

“Stop this, please,” you said, desperation tinting your voice as you said “the joke has gone on long enough and I want you to let me out.”

But he still didn't say anything further. All he did was stare down at you with a look on his face that you couldn't read while his presence was quickly becoming overwhelming.

Seconds were ticking by and nothing was happening. Kishibe was still standing over you. He wasn't backing away like you wanted. He wasn't agreeing with your assessment that this entire thing was a joke, like you wanted. And he wasn't producing the key and letting you out of what had become a deeply uncomfortable and unsettling scene with him.

The longer it went on, the harder it became for you to breathe, all the while the sick feeling that surrounded you only grew more intense as you were slowly forced to accept the reality of the situation:

He wasn't joking.

And you were helpless.

How long of a period had passed before he spoke again, you had no idea. Too wrapped up in your thoughts and growing fear, it easily could have been minutes or seconds. But you were snapped out of your thoughts instantly when you heard his low voice once more.

“You didn't answer my question earlier: what am I supposed to apologize for?” he asked again.

“For…… For touching me. Grabbing me like you did in the bedroom,” you hesitantly answered.

“I don't see why I should apologize for that.”

Kishibe tilted his head slightly as he continued with “you belong to me now. Why shouldn't I be able to do whatever I want with you?”

His words settled in your mind, your pulse beating rapidly as your mind raced.

Then you screamed.

As loud and as hard as your vocal chords were capable of, you screamed for help as he continued to loom over you. It wasn't brave or noble, but there was nothing else you could do to fight him off. You were too weak for anything like that.

Screaming was all you could do.

The screams for help that tore out of your throat come out with such ferocity that you managed to be surprised initially. Never in your life could you remember the volume of your own voice reaching such levels, but you'd also never been in a situation like this one. You turned away from him in order to pound at the door as you continue to call for help, hoping that the extra noise will help to get someone's attention – be it of one of his neighbors or a passerby on the street – just as long as it's someone who'll call the police. If you can just get one person to inform the authorities that something's wrong, then you'll get out of this.

Just one person with a phone and an idea of where you were. And maybe, just maybe, a group of well-intentioned people who might be brave enough to burst down the door to get to you. Even if Kishibe was strong, he could only take so many opponents at once, right?

Your throat was aching and the way you slammed your hand against the door was became weaker as the pain that shot through your hand was beginning to become too much, but you kept up with it. You needed help. You needed someone to know what was happening before Kishibe shut you up.

…. Before he shut you up?

It hit you then: through all that time of you desperately making a racket and being as loud as possible, Kishibe hadn't once made any effort to keep you quiet.

He still wasn't.

With tears still rolling down your cheeks and your hand still balled up in a fist on the door, the cries that had so forcefully come from your mouth came to an end as you glanced back at him.

He was taking another swig from that flask. Completely at ease and unbothered at your desperate attempt to seek help. You watched in disbelief as his Adam's apple bobbed as the harsh liquor ran down his throat before he pulled the flask away from his lips, just as leisurely screwing the cap back on before the metal container once again disappeared into his pocket.

Kishibe looked at you.

Then he glanced up at the ceiling.

You followed his gaze, and while you didn't see anything odd with the plain white surface above you two, you noticed that something was amiss:

Someone above you was blasting music loud enough that you could almost make out the lyrics of the song that was playing.

…. It hadn't been that way when you first entered the apartment. Nor had it been the case when you had first tried to leave. You would have heard that, would have noted something like that immediately. Which only meant…..

The realization sank in as you looked up to the ceiling in horror, coming to the conclusion that in the middle of your screaming and banging, the person directly above you had heard, and made the decision to play the loud music in an attempt to drown you out so they didn't need to listen anymore.

They didn't want to help you.

“It doesn't sound like they're going to do anything,” Kishibe said to you, drawing your attention back to him.

“Doesn't seem like anyone else is going to bother, either,” he added, reaching back up with his hand so he could place it on the door by your head as he leaned in closer.

“You're alone in this.”

The cold words he spoke sent a shudder through you, and you shook your head as if denying what he had just told you would somehow change the way things were going.

“Why?” you asked, your voice wavering as you continued “why won't anyone help me?”

“Because nothing bad is happening to them, so they don't care,” he answered plainly, “maybe if they knew you, it might bother them. But bad things happen to complete strangers everyday; just because this time it's a bit closer in proximity doesn't make them care any more or any less.”

His other hand reached up to play with your hair, almost absentmindedly running his fingers through the strands as he continued to speak.

“As long as they're in the clear at the end of the day, that's all that matters to them,” he said.

“That's…. That's not true,” you sniffled, “someone out there wants to help me. They need to.”

Kishibe shrugged.

“Maybe some would,” he said, “but clearly those people aren't in earshot right now.”

The callousness of his words sent your emotions into a frenzy once again. Tears began running down your cheeks again while you sobbed. Only you weren't screaming this time, nor were you banging against the door. What was the point? If no one would help you even after hearing that, then why bother?

All you could do was cry about it like the pathetic weakling you were.

With your forehead pressed against the door, you weren't able to see any of what Kishibe was doing. You knew he was still behind you – it was hard to ignore how closely he was looming over you – but he had yet to do anything to you.

Would he even do anything?

As soon as you thought that, you remembered how he had groped you in the bedroom, how he had held you down against him even when you told him to let you go. In that same moment, you felt one of his hands around your waist and his fingers slipping beneath the layers of your hoodie and shirt so he could caress your skin directly. His other hand found its way to your jaw so he could direct your attention towards him once again.

Of course he'd do something further. Why had you even considered that he might not?

The blank brown eyes you had grown to know met yours, and despite the futility of the situation, you still made yourself put out one last plea. Even if he was odd, he was still human at the end of the day, and therefore, he needed to have some sort of empathy, right?

“I won't go to the police – I won't say anything about this to anyone,” you told him, “so please, reconsider.”

“No.”

His answer to your request was swift; he didn't think twice about it nor was he moved in any way.

Kishibe had made up his mind and there was no changing it.

Just as swiftly as his answer, he then angled your jaw upward so he could claim your lips in a kiss.

The taste on his tongue was harsh, a cocktail of the liquor he'd consumed over the course of the evening. The strongest remnant of alcohol that flooded your senses was most likely whatever he had just gulped down from his flask. The stubble around his lips brushed against your skin and the sensation made you jump, though with the hand he still had on your jaw, you again were unable to escape his grasp. There was nowhere for you to go; he had you pressed firmly between the front door and himself. The only bit of freedom he allowed you were the ways in which you trembled beneath his grasp, how you shook and shivered while his free hand continued to caress the skin beneath your shirt.

The whimpers you made in response to his touch were swallowed up by his mouth as he prolonged what was certainly a show of mockery for an action that was meant to be tender.

Did he really need to torment you in this way?

When he pulled away from the kiss he did so with a clear plan in mind, as his hands immediately went to the zipper of your hoodie and forced it down before pulling the entire piece of clothing off of you, taking your bag with it. Both items were tossed behind him and he quickly placed his hands on you once again, moving them all over as he explored your body through your clothes. Even through your clothing at acted as a sort of barrier, the feeling of his calloused palms stroking up your sides and down your spine were enough to make you jolt in place and force whimpers out of your mouth.

He moved in closer, pressing up directly behind you which allowed you to feel the growing bulge in his pants.

When he shifted his focus in order to grope your breasts through the material of your shirt, you placed your head so it was pressed against the door again, still sobbing. All you wanted in that moment was to become one with the door; merge into it so he couldn't do this to you anymore. You didn't care what happened to you, just as long as this would stop.

Instead of that mercy, Kishibe continued to toy with your chest. Then he began to speak.

“I'm a bit surprised you let it get as far as what happened in the bedroom,” he told you, “you really had no issue going into a man's apartment that you'd never been to before? There was nothing that raised any alarm for you until I had you on top of me?”

You whimpered.

“You're too naive; that's why you won't be leaving. If I don't step in you'll get yourself killed.”

His thumb and pointer finger found your nipple through your clothes, and when he began to focus on that by pinching it between his fingers, a strangled noise emerged from your throat.

Kishibe felt the need to comment on that.

“Do you like being played with from behind? You're more responsive to this than I was expecting,” he said.

“N-no….”

Your shirt remained as it was only for a few more moments before he decided that he wanted to feel your bare skin, resulting in him ripping your shirt down the neckline and pulling your bra down with it. With skin now on skin, it was instantly noticeable when the shrieks that left your mouth as his fingers tweaked your nipples sounded less horrified and more wanton.

“You really do like this,” Kishibe said, a hint of pleasure in his voice.

“No,” you said again.

Instead of acknowledging your denial, his hot breath hit your ear as he said “I was thinking it'd probably take a little bit to get you wet enough so fucking you would be a bit more comfortable, but I probably don't need to wait all that long, do I? If those noises of yours are any indication, I bet I could slide into you right now.”

“No!”Even with you raising your voice, he still wasn't listening.

His hands crept around your waist again before they found the zipper of your pants. The sound of it zipping open seemed loud within the space of your head, but it didn't compare to the feeling of his thumbs slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear before he shoved your panties down past your thighs, taking your pants with them.

With your most intimate area now exposed, you shuddered as the chill air attacked your flesh. When Kishibe began to palm and knead your ass, you whimpered. Your lower half was then pulled away from the door and he moved his knee between your thighs so he could spread your legs wider. You could feel how heavy his gaze was on your cunt. Heat filled your cheeks while you bit down on your lip, the tears that were still flowing now a bit more angry.

It was humiliating. He had you pressed against the surface of the door, your palms laying flat against it while your ass was sticking out. You didn't want to merge with the door anymore; you wanted to curl up and die.

But even that wasn't an option for you.

A pair of thick fingers found their way to your cunt, caressing your folds in a way that felt experimental before his middle finger slipped between them, the tip shallowly ghosting along your heated entrance which caused you to shudder. The wetness that was beginning to drip out of you easily coated his fingertip, much to his amusement.

“Thought so,” he said.

“No.”

It wasn't true. You weren't enjoying this; just because he forced such a reaction out of you didn't mean that you wanted it. He knew that but he was just insisting on being as horrible as possible. How could you have not realized what he was really like until now?

“Hard to argue when I have the evidence smeared on my fingers, don't you think?” Kishibe asked you. He pushed his digits into your folds for emphasis, and the squelching sounds of him dipping into your wet heat only made you more ashamed. His free hand then returned to your chest while he fingered your cunt.

His fingers were sliding along your walls easier than you would have liked, and the feeling of his blunt nails inside of you as he stretched you out caused several shudders to run through your body, becoming intense enough that you needed to bite down hard on your lip to try and keep down the shameful whining noises that wanted to emerge because of it.

He must have noticed the way you were trying to keep it in as he way he was fingering you suddenly became rougher, with him curling his fingers while searching for the sensitive spots inside of you. He moved in closer as well, breathing huskily into your ear as he spoke to you.

“I wish I'd done this sooner,” Kishibe whispered, “if I had known how eager you would be for me, I wouldn't have wasted so much time before.”

No insults or retorts left your mouth that time; you were too busy trying to be as quiet as possible as all you could focus on was the awful affect he was having on you while his fingers continued to slide in and out. He was being rougher now because he wanted to humiliate you even more – that was the only explanation. To have you moan like you were enjoying this as a way to torment you further. As if the way your wetness was dripping down the inside of your thighs wasn't enough, turning cold once it hit the open air and sending more shudders running through you.

When his other hand came down to toy with your clit, you ended up biting your lip hard enough to draw blood. You hated how it felt good. How the feeling of his fingers rubbing hard circles against that nub had your legs shaking and your insides burning. Kishibe intended for you to cum on his fingers, and you hated that he would more than likely be successful in that goal.

Why aren't you stopping him?

…..It hit you that you hadn't really tried much to get away from him. Aside from the way you ordered him to let go and how you pushed his hand away, there was very little in terms of actual resistance on your part.

But what could you even do? How would a civilian fight off an expert devil hunter?

Even though you couldn't imagine any scenario where you on your own managed to get away from him, maybe the way you had done nothing other than cry through your assault had been enough to reaffirm in his mind that you needed to be kept away from the world. For your safety, he said.

You wondered if he was actually delusional enough to believe that excuse.

That train of thought was derailed completely when you felt Kishibe's fingers brush against a spot within you in tandem with the fingers on your clit, and your vision whited out as he forced out the reaction he'd been looking for.

You came on his fingers.

Your face and ears were burning and you could taste iron from your bleeding lip as you tried your hardest to keep in those awful moans.

Mercifully, he didn't continue fingering you when you came. Instead he seemed to savor the way you were clenching down around him as you heard him let out a breathy sigh into your ear. When you had finished, he stayed like that, his chest pressed against your back and the fingers on your clit giving you one last stroke before he pulled away.

After another moment, he pulled his fingers out of you, his hands finally leaving those sensitive, intimate areas. A new wave of anxiety washed over you as you had a horrible idea of what was going to follow.

You heard his belt being undone. And then his zipper, which was hastily followed by the sound of his pants being shoved down.

And then his hands were back around your waist, pulling you back into the position he had forced you into earlier that you had unconsciously moved from as your body unintentionally moved back to press against the door, still trying to escape him even though you knew there was no point.

He spread open the lips of your pussy, guiding his cock to your entrance after. Your breath hitched when you felt him rub the tip against your folds, gathering up your wetness on the end of his length just as he'd done with his fingers earlier.

He shoved himself in.

And once he was inside of you, he only took a brief moment to savor it, letting out a small sigh of contentment as he finally got to experience the feeling of the walls of your cunt clamping down on his dick.

“Good girl,” Kishibe mumbled.

Your heart was in your throat, however, as despite knowing where things would be heading once he had begun kissing and groping you earlier, the feeling of his dick being sheathed halfway into you just cemented that this was real: he'd locked you in his apartment and claimed you as his own. And if he continued to get his way from this point, then this would be the rest of your life, one spent as a plaything to Kishibe's whims.

Only for a moment was that thought able to run through your head, however, because soon after he began to fuck you in earnest. Despite your successful resistance before, you weren't able to keep quiet once you felt him moving against you, his cock plugging up your hole again and again as his hips thrust hard against your ass. The sobs that were mixed with your moans bounced against the surface of the door, filling up the small, empty space of the entryway.

If only you were loud enough to drown out the noises Kishibe was making.

For a man who was normally so quiet, there was no attempt on his part to keep in his own groans and grunts. Still positioned with his mouth by your ear as he kept you close to him, you heard everything. His own harsh breathing mixed with small curses that left his lips in time with the cock that was slamming into you. Swears that were changed out for praise of you when his fingers returned to your clit to stimulate you further, causing your sensitive walls to quiver around him.

The words “good girl” were said to you many times during that period.

Your back quickly became sticky with sweat, your own body heat combined with that of Kishibe making it get to the point that it was becoming too much. The feeling of cold from when you had been outside was forgotten as it felt like every part of you was burning up while his body was engulfing your won as he used you to chase his pleasure. You wanted him away from you, just a little bit.

With a shaking hand, you pressed it against his chest as best you could with the awkward position, silently trying to communicate that want of yours.

Kishibe grabbed your wrist and forced it back against the doorway, keeping his hand gripped firmly around your arm and refusing to let go even when you tried to wiggle out of it. Eventually you were forced to give up on getting what you wanted.

Just like everything else tonight.

With the brute strength he was displaying as he pounded into your pussy and how sensitive you still were from your previous orgasm, you found yourself cumming much faster the second time. Your pussy walls clenched hard around him once again, but this time Kishibe made the choice to fuck you through it.

That only prolonged your orgasm, and the longer it went on, the more strained your moans became as your throat was thoroughly raw by that point.

Once your pleasure faded, you were left waiting for Kishibe to finish. Something you didn't need to wait long for as soon enough you felt him stiffen within you, and then his swollen cock erupted, long white streams of cum painting your insides as he kept himself pressed close, wanting to be as deep within you as possible. He groaned loudly as he did so, and his hand returned to your breast to knead the soft flesh once more as his own orgasm began to ebb away, his cock still twitching in the aftermath.

The entryway was now filled with the breathless gasps of the both of you and the scent of sweat and sex.

Once his cock had softened, Kishibe released the grip he had on you and pulled his dick out of your pussy, and finally, he stepped away from you.

Immediately you slumped down, exhausted, your front half still pressed against the door while you sat in the entryway, your pants still around your ankles and Kishibe's cum and your own release dripping down your thighs and onto the floor beneath you. You still had tears to shed, apparently, as the sight had you going back to sobbing. Your throat hurt and your nose was stuffy, but all you could think about was how you wished you hadn't made the choice to help Kishibe earlier.

If only you had decided to go with your own selfish instincts, you wouldn't be here right now. By now you probably would've been asleep, safe and sound in your own bed in your own apartment, and the only danger you would be facing would be the possibility of your next door neighbor's children running wild again and slamming doors so hard that the walls would shake.

Being reminded of your day off that you had planned out had you crying harder as you realized you couldn't ever go back to days like that.

God how you wished you could redo your actions from tonight.

You were reminded of Kishibe's presence when you felt his hand run down your back, his knuckles grazing you lightly and with a touch so soft that it felt out of place when you thought of what you had just experienced at his hands.

He wasn't trying to comfort you, was he?

With robotic movements, you turned your head once again so you could see him, see the face of the man who had hurt you so horribly. Unsurprisingly, there was no real emotion to be gleaned from his expression as it was as blank as it always was. Though when you looked at his eyes, you found that there was a hint of something there. Something more intense and obsessive than you had ever witnessed from anyone, much less Kishibe.

“You did good,” he told you.

“Fuck you,” you weakly hissed in response.

“Mm, not right now. Maybe in the morning.”

He moved his hand to your upper arm, squeezing you in what seemed to be an encouraging manner as he said “it's late now. We should get some rest.”

“Can you walk, or should I carry you?” Kishibe then asked.

You didn't respond. Instead you shrugged off his hand and turned your head to face the door, not wanting to look at him any longer.

“Alright then.”

Within a moment, you were scooped up off of the floor and into his arms with surprising ease, and while you were feeling disoriented from the way you were moved about like that, Kishibe had turned and walked away from the door with you held firmly against his chest.

It shouldn't have been too much of a shock that it was this easy for him to pick you up, and yet…..

“You could have just forcibly taken me if you wanted,” you mumbled.

“I could have,” he said.

The way he so readily agreed with you turned your emotions to anger once again.

“So why bother with all that bullshit?” you snapped.

“Because I thought the way you doted on me was nice,” Kishibe said.

“You're a scumbag.”

“Hm.”

Kishibe neither agreed nor disagreed with you, as he stepped into the bedroom with you, taking care to make sure your feet didn't hit the door frame as he carried you in. Once the two of you were fully inside, he stopped and then looked at you.

Having his gaze fully on you once again had that bit of anger die out, as suddenly you felt more vulnerable than you'd ever felt in your life before this point. Your shirt was torn and the majority your legs were still bare as he hadn't bothered to readjust your pants before he'd grabbed you, so you were in his arms with your pants around your ankles.

Not just humiliating, but awkward as well, especially when you moved to cover yourself back up as the way he stared at you had those intense feelings of shame and helplessness running through you once again. Though you knew it wouldn't accomplish much of anything, and especially not when you were at the mercy of Kishibe's whims.

“Did I say you could cover up?”

The sound of his voice made you freeze, and then when you processed his words, you began to shake in his grip. While it seemed that you were out of tears to shed, you were still able to sniffle softly in despair.

That got him to react, and Kishibe leaned in to place a kiss on your forehead before he buried his face into your hair again.

“It'll be hard for now, but it will get better,” he told you.

You only shook harder in his grip.

With a hum against your hair, he spoke again.

“You should be happy. In this world where people's priorities are on themselves and themselves alone, you have someone who's willing to do anything to look out for you.”

And with that, Kishibe used his foot to close the bedroom door firmly behind the both of you.

[dragonbabes]

SHIT CAN YOU IMAGINE

“Thank you.” A tired edge has taken over Rook’s voice in a harsh raspiness. Lucanis has learned that they struggle with mornings; they claim that it’s only ever been since they’ve been tasked with preventing doomsday. The look Viago gave from over their shoulder, though, told him it might’ve been a white lie. It makes him chuckle to remember, even now as he sinks into the chair just to Rook’s right.

“You were out late,” his words trail off as he watches Rook take the cup from his extended hand and put it directly to their lips, “last night…” There’s a dumbfounded silence as the assassin turns the words over in his head.

Rook didn’t check for poison.

At first, there’s a trickle of worry; Rook always checks. Are they okay? Did they get hurt? How could they forget what is essentially Viago’s golden rule? No… They’d never forget that…

So… Rook chose to not check. Lucanis can’t think to keep the look of bewilderment from his face. There’s a pinch between his dark brows, a part of his lips, and a tilt to his head. Rook hums their question at him, and their eyes flick to his; what’s he looking at, they seem to ask. Lucanis instantly tears his gaze away and a short smile flitters across his lips. He’s not sure how to act, and he’s also not sure why that is. Spite takes the trouble of whispering a hint in the back of his mind:

“You want Rook. But you don’t take. Why?”

“You make this?” Rook’s hands linger over the puffy pastries he’d made early this morning in a final attempt to keep himself conscious while the others were resting. He nods.

“Porras.” He says over the lip of his cup before taking a drink. His rich chocolate eyes note every movement Rook makes. From eying each pastry and taking the most appetizing, to bringing it directly to their lips again. Lips that pull upward at the corner, he notices, and lips that sit below sparkling eyes filled with what he can only call pleasure, bordering on ecstasy.

“This is so good.” Rook sighs. Again, they’re met with perturbed silence. His expression resumes the shocked look from before, but this time, he can’t fight the glossiness that takes up his warming eyes. Eyes of a man who’s realizing that, yes, Rook chose not to check the coffee he made. Not from laziness or as an act of childish rebellion, but because he was the one who made it.

Rook isn’t checking the foods he makes for them anymore? It almost makes him lay his head on the table and begin weeping. The joy — a warmth building in his chest that he could let out in a cry at the top of any building in Thedas — has him thrumming, and a smile pushing onto his parted lips. This time, Rook bothers to put their prodding look into words.

“What? You keep staring at me! Do I have something in my hair? On my face?” Their eyes trail down their body — his own eyes instinctively follow — as if to check if they’d forgotten to put clothes on. He only allows his smile to deepen.

“Nothing, Rook. I am only taking note that you like Porras.” He stands and offers his hand to their emptied coffee cup. “Would you like more?” Rook reflects his smile back to him.

“Only if you pour it.”

His world seems to click into place. Every question that he couldn’t find the answer to is either worthless to know, or has been given to him just by the knee-bending feeling spreading through every inch of him. He accepts the revelation in stride: Rook trusts him.

They trust him with their life.

Lucanis feels Rook’s hold over him tighten, sinking their nails in deeper, until he’s entirely at their mercy… The thought, strangely enough, doesn’t scare him. If he is safe anywhere, it’s at Rook’s side.

He rides the joy over the moon, only to come back down when he watches them take the cup from his hand with a gracious smile, and take another drink without hesitation.

Rook trusts him with their life. Lucanis asks himself if he’ll be able to keep them safe. A question he can’t answer. The world opens up beneath him and begins to swallow him again.

“Why don’t you take?” Spite hisses. Lucanis looks to the coffee encased between his hands.

“Can you show me how to make these?” Rook butts into his spiraling thoughts. “If I made some for Viago, he might forgive me for sabotaging that operation.” Lucanis snorts and then chuckles. The gray clouds begin slink away from him.

“That’s a lot of porras.” They share a laugh on a quiet morning, shared just between the two of them.

Im sorry I literally keep posting entire fictions in reblogs but you guys keep having these wonderful ideas and my brain is annoying and really enjoys overthinking things.

Taash: You ever get offended that Rook always tests the food you make for poisons? Lucanis: Nope, they're a De Riva, Viago probably drilled that habit into them when they were five years old.

[wingedshadowfan]

some thoughts about the caitvi breakup scene

i saw ppl pointing out what looks like a tear running down caitlyn's nose after her and vi's fight w/ sevika and jinx (when she finally stops hitting the wall w/ her rifle and puts her forehead to it) and it could've been just sweat, but here's why i think it wasn't:

it's bcuz vi took the choice away from her.

we all know caitlyn's parents had been keeping her in a golden birdcage since she'd been a child. we see this symbolically in her conversation with jayce when he gets kicked out from the academy after the explosion - he's outside in the rain, but she's within the gates of the kiramman estate, under an umbrella, protected, hidden. she tells him her parents don't allow her to talk to him anymore but she doesn't care. they're friends.

we know cassandra didn't approve of caitlyn's choice to become an enforcer (we assume caitlyn had to fight for it and her family tried to stop her). even after, her mother kept meddling and made sure caitlyn would always get safer tasks - out of harm's way and where she'd never be able to prove herself or do any actual good. her own coworkers made fun of her for being a kiramman and only "playing dress up" as an enforcer - a job she decided she wanted and had been working towards since she was a child, in order to help and protect people. she'd had to fight (not for the first time) to be placed on a case, in a real guard position, to be taken seriously.

caitlyn's choice and her agency - things she's barely been given in her own life, because of her parents, her name and how sheltered she'd grown up - she'd always had to fight for. she'd had to fight to be able to choose, she's had to fight to defend her choices, and she's had to fight to prove herself over and over again.

then for the first time in her life, she didn't have to fight because vi (perhaps being swallowed by her own guilt for everything jinx had done to caitlyn) gave caitlyn the ability to choose what happens to jinx.

and caitlyn chose. vi agreed with her choice.

take the shot.

then vi took the choice away from her in the last possible moment, physically stopping her from shooting. (now, we can talk abt what that means to someone who's never been the stronger opponent in any physical altercation they've been a part of so far, but i won't)

this is the real reason caitlyn completely disassociates shuts down, not to mention the adrenaline after almost dying again. she goes all out hitting the wall, lets out a single tear, refuses to look vi in the eyes and tells her, "i thought you were different but you're not"

she's yet another person who denies caitlyn the ability to make a choice in her life.

it's her blood in your veins.

vi's loyalties lie with the blood of someone who'd worked for silco in oppressing the undercity, lured and blown up caitlyn's coworkers, tried to kill caitlyn (and vi) multiple times, kidnapped her from her fucking bathroom, dressed her up against her will, kept her hostage for a full day in which she with almost 100% certainty tortured her, kept her as the only person gagged throughout the tea party, asked vi to kill her, then blew her mother up and (allegedly) attacked her memorial. talk abt taking someone's freedom of choice away.

then why are you the one acting like her?

vi - not fully without reason - compares caitlyn to her worst fucking nightmare. a psychotic killer who's caused so much fear and trauma to caitlyn, that she admitted jinx's smile is all she sees when she closes her eyes, up there w/ her own mother's lifeless eyes?? and yeah, vi has a point - caitlyn had indeed grown more violent and aggressive in her desparate pursuit for revenge. that doesn't mean it hurts caitlyn any less, especially when she'd been trying so hard to do the right thing (sending a squad to catch jinx, not a full armed invasion, only her and vi having hextech, clearing the streets first), and vi knows this: she just automatically did what she does best - aimed for where it hurts the most. i think she even realizes she's overstepped but before she can do anything about it, caitlyn bites back reflexively and hits her with her rifle. there, in the place of the wound she once took care of herself.

the perfect storm.

the only question i have left is why everyone in this fandom keeps acting like caitlyn is the only one who hurt someone and vi is the only one who got hurt in that scene.

[everythingseasoning]

Hey, people are saying that Gojo (live action) said "Koishiteru ne, ryoukai" to Geto, which literally means "I love you" in English. Gojo's English voice actor did mention that his last words were a three-word sentence that was too embarrassing to be used in public. Do you have any idea if this is true or not?

in japanese culture,Koishiteru is used as to express deepest form of love and considered embarrassing and too intimate to be used in public domain.

Hi! I’m both flattered and flustered to receive this ask ahah. I did not watch the live action (I won’t lie, I didn’t even know there was one…), but I’ll try to answer your ask to the best of my abilities.

First of all, I think anything that wasn’t directly stated by Gege, or people Gege worked directly with, can’t be 100% verified as canon. Anything you heard from a second source might just be an interpretation.

As for the “koishiteru” (恋してる) thing, I’m not a native Japanese person, but I am half Japanese. From what I know, “koishiteru” is usually said when you’re falling in love with somebody, and you have those strong romantic/excited feelings towards them. So… I don’t think that’s what they said, because Gojo hadn’t seen Geto in many years (besides when Geto invaded Jujutsu Tech), and their ideals and paths had diverged significantly since the last time they’d interacted. In fact, Gojo was angry at Geto for endangering his students, the youth, as we see when Gojo says, “I thought we agreed we wouldn’t hurt the youth.” It’s clear that Gojo’s ideals and beliefs are clashing with Geto’s actions, during that reconnection scene. People usually don’t fall for somebody who isn’t somebody they deeply admire (whose convictions and beliefs you can resonate with). So prior to Geto’s death, I think that Gojo expressed that he still felt affection for Geto, and I will explain below.

Despite Geto’s defection all those years ago, and despite his actions before his death, Gojo still had feelings alike affection and concern for Geto. The two understood one another in a way nobody else did: they were high school best friends who were the strongest, two teenagers who had given up their life in order to protect and serve others. Gojo never knew a life outside of being a weapon. And Geto understood the world that Gojo grew up in, lived in, fought in, fought for— and the two laughed together, too. They were comrades. Geto was Gojo’s first and only deep connection, for a long, long time. Geto was the closest to an equal that Gojo would ever have. There’s no doubt that Gojo still considered Geto his best friend (Gojo said so, himself), but going so far as saying “koishiteru” is… not making sense to me.

The two were undoubtedly still important to one another before Gojo ended Geto, but their own different missions were more important to them than one another (that’s why they had split). That doesn’t mean the two still didn’t hold a special place in their hearts for the bond they shared with one another, but it does make me believe that Gojo and Geto couldn’t have been lovers in that they never got the chance to be romantically involved. Gojo called Geto his “best friend” rather than his lover, as well. It’s possible that Gojo could have developed romantic feelings for Geto over time, if they’d spent more time together. But they didn’t have the time and space to grow closer to one another. It would’ve had to have been in another life.

TLDR: what Gojo and Geto had was real, it was best friendship, it was connection (hit all the boxes that allowed Gojo, the isolated king, to actually connect to somebody else). Geto was possibly Gojo’s only deep connection that he’d ever experienced— but their ideals pushed them apart. They still hold a special affection for the bond they shared, a special affection for one another, but they’re not puppy love obsessed with one another, nor are they bound together anymore by convictions. Whether or not that means they’re just tragic best friends, or lovers, who can say for sure? No one, except Gege.

Philosophy take away: You might love somebody with all your heart, but there can still be a world of distance between the two of you, if your convictions and beliefs diverge. It’s… something.

[platoapproved]

I hope it’s OK that I ask, how will your Loumand fic do the gaslighting stuffs ? Will there be a sad ending , or if it’s in a universe where Armand won’t do that so it has a happy ending !

Firstly, strictly in regards to the fanfic: we set out to write a fanfic that is earnest, optimistic, and invested in the importance of Louis and Armand's love for one another over the course of their long relationship. I don't know that I am able to categorize the ending, and overall tone, as sad or happy. It's a mixture.

Secondly, I don't want anyone to think it's not okay to ask stuff and I am thus choosing to assume the most good faith version of this question, where you really just want to know what's in store for the fic in regards to tone. However, I do want to say that waking up to this in my inbox bummed me out a lot. I think a friend put it well when I shared this and they agreed that it can read as "Will you address my specific headcanons in your fic? And if not, can I judge you for it?" There's a (probably unintended!) air of… policing how happy Louis/Armand fics are allowed to be and in what circumstances.

Thirdly, I'm going to hand it over to @marbleflan for a response to the idea of 'the gaslighting stuffs' being a necessary talking point to all Loumand fics:

Wow, ok buckle up yall this is gonna be long!

This is one of those asks that is just so hard to know where to begin. Let’s start with how Armand gaslighting is presented as an immutable fact of the show that we would have to rewrite or omit in order to write a story with a happy/optimistic ending. So first of all: what gaslighting?

Just as a reminder, gaslighting as a term comes from the film Gaslight and refers to subtle acts of denial of someone’s perceived reality in order to undermine their confidence in their own version of events. Crucially, gaslighting is a pattern of behavior, and relies on small acts of denial (in the film, the level of light thrown by the gas lamps, hence the title) that make possible larger assertions of one reality over another. So when and where exactly does Armand engage in this behavior? Point me to the places where this is happening because I haven’t seen it.

This kind of assertion that Armand is “gaslighting” or “manipulating” Louis is so pervasive in the fandom, to the point where it’s often presented as a fact of his character rather than one possible interpretation of his actions. My own interpretation is that Armand engages in a lot more self-deception than he does conscious manipulation: that is, when he lies to Louis, he really thinks he is justified by the circumstances, rather than misleading him for some ulterior purpose.

Armand lies to Louis canonically twice: 1) when he colludes with the cult to kidnap Louis and Claudia and put them on trial and 2) when he mischaracterizes his role in the trial as coerced and passive when in fact it was active. For me, the biggest factor in thinking Armand makes the choices he makes because he believes he has no other alternative is the delivery of the line “I could not have prevented it” about Claudia’s death. To me, this line is delivered not to Louis and not to Daniel, but to Armand himself—he’s reassuring himself that even if he made different choices the trial and its fallout were not preventable. 

Given Armand’s backstory, this kind of makes sense. Although he is the most powerful vampire in the coven, his experiences have taught him that being the most powerful will not save you: his maker, after all, was even more powerful and ancient and was burned alive by the Children of Darkness. And Lestat’s disruption of Armand’s rule over the CoD likewise showed him that a persuasive and charismatic leader can overturn centuries of indoctrination. It isn’t that he literally couldn’t have prevented it—it’s that he believes he couldn’t prevent it. 

The second lie, about the extent of his involvement, I think is really where there could be multiple interpretations. Why would he do this? My own take is that he does not go into the trial thinking Louis will survive. He fully expects that both Claudia and Louis will be killed and he’ll be left behind. Thus, he plays the role he always plays within the coven: artistic director. Later, after Lestat manages to intervene and transmute Louis’s sentence, he decides to free Louis. When Louis assumes Armand saved him at the trial, Armand doesn’t correct him and goes along with it, and the lie spirals from there. 

To me, I can completely see Armand justifying these lies of omission in a variety of ways. Sure, he didn’t save him at the trial, but he did save him later (by freeing him from the coffin). Sure, he did betray him, but he thought he didn’t have a choice. What’s the difference between feeling like you don’t have a choice and being physically restrained? And so on, and so forth. My point is not that Armand is blameless, or that he should be absolved of responsibility for his choices, but rather to point out that his actions aren’t fundamentally manipulative. They’re in character for someone who has survived a lot of abuse and violence, and whose priority is their own continued survival.

Now let’s talk about the San Francisco episode. Louis recovers his memories and is shaken, upset, and resentful that Armand took them; Armand claims Louis requested he remove them. Is he lying? The show doesn’t actually tell us! It’s completely left up to the audience to decide! Despite the near ubiquity of the opinion that Armand is lying here, I think there’s plenty of reason to think Louis might have indeed asked Armand to wipe his memories.

Firstly, it’s weird that Armand would have chosen only this memory to wipe, but left Louis with so many unflattering memories of him completely intact. Why not erase the trial, or at least Armand’s betrayal? Armand, in Louis’s Paris memories, fights with him, fucks up in front of him, all sorts of things. If Armand’s goal is manipulating Louis (for what, I’m not even sure - just to stay in a relationship with him?) why erase only this one memory? And moreover, why not erase Daniel altogether? Daniel stays with Louis and Armand for five days and then Armand says he erased Louis’s memories three days after that. Armand can erase eight days of memory but not eight and a half?

Secondly, although Daniel makes a huge deal out of their memories cutting off at the same moment, to me this is more of a flag for the opposite. In Louis’s own recovered memories, he is an active participant in erasing Daniel’s memory: in fact, it is practically his idea! Armand is ready to drain Daniel, wrap him in plastic, and yeet him into the nearest incinerator, and Louis is the one who demands he live. Louis is the one seen feeding Daniel his rote lines. Louis’s own rote lines, which emphasize Daniel’s importance, make more sense for him to have authored than Armand, who at that point is pretty much ready to kill Daniel and be done with it.

I also think it’s in character for Louis to have asked for it. Louis, in season one in the confession scene, says explicitly that his problem is avoidance: he runs to the bottle, etc. In fact that’s exactly what we see him doing in 1973, escapism via drugs and sex. Louis’s desire for the truth but instinct to misremember is central to his whole character. Hence the emotional freight of him telling Daniel that Lestat’s version of Claudia’s turning was more accurate, it’s him confronting how even as he tried to reveal the truth to Daniel his instinct was to alter the details to make himself seem less culpable. He’s always struggling with this: how much of what happened is his fault? He’s afraid of the answer, because he feels responsible for it. Additionally, Louis has trauma specifically around suicide, because of Paul’s death. So yeah; I can see him at a low point in 1973 saying “I can’t live with myself, I don’t want to remember this.”

This is just my interpretation, but it’s as valid as any other, because the show does not give us the answer. 

This is getting way too long and I have more to say BUT finally I’ll just ask that if you’re jumping on the “Armand is manipulating Louis” bandwagon please sit with yourself for a moment over why it’s that character that must be the manipulator. Why, in a show that takes great pains to have a full cast of flawed, realistic, imperfect characters, the one that is somehow irretrievably, Machiavellian-ly manipulative? What is it about him that inspires this reaction? 🧐🧐🧐🧐🧐 Maybe just sit with that question for a minute. 

-

THANK YOU @marbleflan for all that. I'm going to be honest: I don't really have the emotional energy for further discussion of this, which is why I'm grateful my friend was willing to share her thoughts. If you disagree with this, that's your prerogative! But I'm not going to be answering any asks that seem to be judging/policing/starting drama over a wrong interpretation of the character or ship.

[diazpatcher]

I am back here we go

So Jack deleted Mary

you're dead to me" OUCH WHAT,

oh. okay so bobby 2.0 did not just kill a random ass dude.

Idk Mary is dead now ig

DEAN PUT AWAY JOHNS JOURNAL AFTER MARY DIED 😣😣😣

bobby 2.0 sticking around, caring for them even though he doesn't know them......

SHOWING US DEAN SOBBING AT THE LAST PLACE MARY WAS ALIVE IM GONNA LOOSE MY SHIT

Dumah saw a lost child and turned him.into God what the fuck

Jack's wings are crazy tall holy shit

Also Jack going on a killing spree in the name of Christianity is insane like what💀

WORSM FUCK NO

Wait what the fuck.is the plot for this season anymore 🤨 like I don't even remember (gonna rewatch like very soon.)

NO EW WHY WORMS

the suicide box😞

Dean is so 🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️ even though he is going through it rn

I mean at least now they have angels again...😐😐

CASTIEL 😁 (dumah you sweet girl)

Castiel is so scary 🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️

Lowkey dumah did what was right, like they needed angels, she found a way, she saw Jack and saw a solution.

So who's gonna be faster, Sam or Castiel 🤨

Oh- Cas really should stop killing angels, but also he just killed Dumah bc she threatened Mary and John 💀 and used Jack go off queen.

"I make angels" 🧍‍♂️

Sam having to physically stand between Jack and Dean, the only thing stopping either of them from dying.

Hey so how do we feel about the fact that Dean and Sam were willing to sacrifice a 3 yr old being

Sam's a real bad actor. like at least try to be convincing

it's, it's "Jack in a Box" 💀

Oh. OH. That's his baby 😞 they locked up his baby

those fucking idiots 💀 they did not think that choice through at all.

THE ENTIRE BUNKER SHAKIMG???? A LITERAL FORTRESS

JACK IS TERRIFYING BTW

HE LOOKS LIKE LUCIFER

"he's jusy another monster "you don't mean that" "the hell I don't." kick me in the head while your at it

Oh that's rhe one where they can't lie!!!!!!! omg

"the staple queen" love that

CHUCK???????????

Jack being caught lying

"eight pack mommy" 😭 Dean canonically follows mommy blogs

Oh no. OH NO. JACK NO.

Chuck being the only one who can reign in Deans anger lmao

THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND IS INFACT A LIZARD 😭

"he sneezes and Ups there goes india" 💀

is that the uh the colt but in pretty?

bro😭 Chuck just inventing a gun that can kill anything.

"the point please" HELP 💀

THE SILENCE IS SO LOUD

oh no. One of them again. Why is it always one of them.😞

Dean being the voice of reason

Chuck not liking Billie is so funny.

Also chuck enjoying the conflict between them is so ick.

"you know what I'm gonna say." BECAUSE ITS ALWAYS HIM.BEFORE SAM IM GONNA SLEEP ON THE HIGHWAY

Dean 😭 i can't even

JACK WAS LOOKING FOR HIS FATHER

Chuck is a nerd btw

"One in reverse, no yellow ones just all squirrels" 💀

So sttaight up, Chuck is obsessed with Sam and Dean. "Because you're my guys." Oh 😭

DEANS ALREADY GONE. 🧍‍♂️ IM EATING GLASS YOU HEAR ME

FUCKING HELL

"somewhere safe" ADN THEY PAN OBER TO THE ONLT DANGER OM THE WORLD THAG IS FUCKING DEAN WINVHESTER.

NO no nonno no no

OM HIS KNEEWS NROTHER I CANT TAKE THIS

Sam and Cas both wanting to stop Dean for entirely different reasons.

Chuck appearing out of nowhere TO WATCH his favorite show

WHAT THE FUCK

oh Dean 😞

"the story" THE FATHER KILLING HIS OWM SON.

Chuck is evil.

"My moms my hero" 😞

WHAT RHE DUXK

WHAY FHE FUCK WHAG THE FUCK WHAY THE FUCK WHAG THE FUCK WHAY THE FUCK

WHAY THE FUCK

WHAT THE FUCK BROTHER.

hä????????????????

WHAY RHE FUCK.

rip jack 🙏

they could have ended it w s14 imo

Billie????????????

What the fuck did chuck do.

i caved and started watching supernatural and Jesus fucking christ why are they so funny

[andromeda-pleiades]

Crossfire

PAIRING: König x M!reader

WORD COUNT: 831

I know my hatred for König made me say I wasn't going to write for him, but he got me out of my writers block, so I'll give him some grace.

The night air was cool, the quiet punctuated by distant sounds of the base—boots crunching gravel, murmured orders. The two of us stood at our post, weapons in hand, our eyes scanning the darkness for movement. But the real danger was here, between us.

I hesitated before speaking, keeping my voice low. “König, we need to talk about…” I glanced around, ensuring no one was within earshot. “Our nighttime activities.”

His eyes didn’t leave the horizon, his body tense, alert. For a moment, I thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then he turned, his expression unreadable behind the sniper hood.

“What about it?”

I took a breath, my chest tight. “We can’t keep sleeping together. It’s against regulations. And…” My voice faltered. “I’m married.”

There. I said it again. As if saying it enough times would make it real for him—or for me. But even as the words left my mouth, I knew I didn’t mean them. Not fully. I didn’t want to lose him, but I couldn’t let him see that. Not yet.

The silence that followed was heavier than the rifle on my back. Finally, he exhaled, his shoulders rising and falling with the effort.

“We’ve had this conversation before,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl. “And every time, you end up in my bed again.”

I winced, the truth cutting deeper than I expected. “You think I don’t know that?” I whispered harshly, my hands gripping my weapon tighter. “Do you know how it feels to go home to her? To lie to her? I took vows, Konig. Vows I’m breaking every time I—”

“Then why do you keep coming back?” His words hit me like a slap, his tone sharp, demanding. He stepped closer, and I could see his eyes now, hard and unyielding. “Why?”

Why? God, if only I had a real answer for him. The truth was too ugly. Too selfish. I wanted both of them—needed both of them. My wife was my safe harbor, my stability, the part of me that wanted to be good. But König… He was the fire. The danger. The part of me that felt alive. I couldn’t give either up. But I couldn’t tell him that.

“I don’t know,” I said, my voice cracking under the weight of the lie. “I’m selfish. I want you, even though I know it’s wrong.”

His laugh was bitter, his hand curling into a fist at his side. “You can’t keep doing this. Coming to me and then leaving, running back to her.” He took another step, the heat of his body almost brushing mine. “You’re tearing me apart, Rosèo . You have to choose.”

I looked up at him, the height difference making my neck ache. “I love you, König.” My voice wavered, the words trembling on my lips. “But I love her too. At least…I think I do. If I didn’t, wouldn’t this be easier? Wouldn’t I have ended it already?”

I could see the flicker of hope in his eyes, and I hated myself for feeding it. He wanted me to say the words, to tell him I’d choose him. And I might, in the moment. If it meant keeping him. But I wouldn’t. Not really. I’d find a way to keep them both.

His gaze softened, but only slightly. “You’re already hurting me by being here,” he said quietly. “By pretending you can have us both.”

Tears stung my eyes, but I forced myself to meet his stare. “Then what am I supposed to do? Tell her the truth? Destroy everything?”

He reached out, his gloved hand tilting my chin until I had no choice but to look at him. “I don’t care what you do,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind. “But you can’t keep doing this to me. You have to decide, Rosèo.”

The silence between us was deafening. I swallowed hard, knowing I had to say something—anything to stop him from walking away.

“I need time. I can’t just…decide this now. Please, König. Just give me that.”

His jaw clenched, and I could see the struggle in his eyes. After a long moment, he nodded. “Fine. Take your time.” He stepped back, but his presence still lingered. “But don’t expect me to wait forever.”

I reached out, my hand resting on his chest. “You know I love you, right?”

He caught my hand, holding it against his heart. “I know. But you love her too.” He released my hand and turned away, scanning the horizon once more. “Don’t take too long, Rosèo . I won’t survive this forever.”

I watched him, the guilt twisting in my gut. He wouldn’t survive this? I wasn’t sure I would either. But I knew one thing: I wouldn’t let him go. Not now. Not ever. If it took every ounce of charm, every half-truth, every reassurance that I just needed time, I would keep him close.

Because I didn’t want to choose. I didn’t plan to choose.

Banners by @cafekitsune

[bidisasterevankinard]

Tommy gets from his shift late at night, basically in the morning. The day was long and night even longer. All he wants now is to fall in his bed and sleep for days.

Opening the door, he's met with silence and a bunch of envelopes near it. He is ready to leave it for tomorrow, but his inner perfectionist doesn't let him leave the mess. He gets it up.

He quickly looks through all of them, noting that all of it's just ads or bills, except the last one. Beautiful baby blue envelope with the handwriting he still remembers as if he saw it yesterday and not a year ago.

Evan.

It's Evan's letter.

Tommy doesn't know why man writers him that way. Using paper and envelope and real mail and not any of their friends. Man knows Tommy has weekly get togethers with Eddie and Chim. Or not on the next barbeque, where they will meet again, like all the time over the last years. Tommy hopes he has to solve his health problem and finally get his weight back. It's sad how Evan was just a ghost of his old self when Tommy saw him over Christmas.

Actually, Tommy doesn't know why man writes him that way. What did he want to tell Tommy that they didn't tell when 118 closed them in the closet in Han's house and didn't let them leave till they got closure? Till they got the understanding why they could never work.

Why does Evan need to write to him?

Tommy weighs the idea about leaving the letter till he wakes up, but his heart is not beating easily without knowing what Evan needed to get on paper and send him.

He opens the envelope. Inside he finds the paper and the photo.

It makes him tear up. The photo is their selfie after they buried Billy. On the outside he can see another handwriting: my happiness.

Tommy swallows, taking a letter in his hands, he sees dried dots if someone was crying when writing.

Dear Tommy,

Hi! How are you? I'm sorry that I'm doing it that way, but I couldn't make myself text or call or come to see you. Because I was afraid. Afraid you would love me just because I'm in pain. Only because I'm in pain. And I had enough of it in my childhood. But I also was afraid you won't be around. It was easier to leave you out. Just as a memory. A good memory. Best memory.

Anyway, if you're reading this, then I'm already dead. Leukemia. Was diagnosed not long before Christmas. It's actually ironic that I'm dying from the same thing that killed my brother and nothing can help.

Ironic and painful. I'm not gonna lie. It's really painful. And not even the treatment or that it doesn't help. No. Painful is that I still have so many things I could live for, try and find, but I don't have time.

But at least I had time to love you. Like I never did with anyone. You're my greatest love, Tommy Kinard. The way you made me feel is unbelievable. Indescribable.

I'm so lucky that I loved and was loved by you. The photo I'm giving you is the moment I had the first “oh! I'm falling for him”, but actually I was falling since you flew us into a hurricane. Thank you for kissing me and giving us those incredible 6 months. I've never been happier. Only with you.

You kissed me and showed me the real me. You showed me I can be loved. And that I can love people.

I know you had reasons to leave. And please know if not for my diagnosis I'd try to call you on New Year's eve, offering you to come and give us another chance. Give you that decision to make.

I hope you forgave me for taking this decision from you. But I can't make you see me dying. See me in pain. See me losing myself. I can't. It could break you, baby. So hard. It's better you find out like that. Maddie or Chim would call you about funerals. Please come. Because I need you to let me go like we did for Billy. I won't be at peace without your goodbye.

But I'm saying it first. Goodbye my love and please remember that I loved you till my very last breath. You were so loved, baby. Please let people love you in the future.

With love,

Your Evan

Tommy falls on his knees, holding the letter close to his heart. He can't see anything. Everything's so blurry. He just cries and cries, screaming in the night.

The sun is rising. The new day is coming. The day he's going to live, knowing that Evan would never call him again.

[bison-appreciation-club]

i was looking through a list of 'forgotten historical speeches that deserve to be remembered <3' and like. it had elizabeth i's tilbury speech on the list? there is no way that isn't a famous speech already

[mechanical-sunchild]

I also just want to say that the core of anons 'concerns' are just blatantly laughable.

When you peel it back to its core, anon is just saying - "Urgh, why can't you freaks just be normal? If you don't want to be bullied just stop being a freak, some people have real problems you know and you're making them worse by existing. Meanwhile your problems are your own fault for choosing to be freaks. I just refuse to believe it's a real thing no matter how old it is, it's too weird and you should think about how much of an insane freak it makes you and be ashamed."

The absolute nonsense of admitting you know identifying outside of your species is something that has happened for decades, whilst also claiming that it's not actually real it's a conservative lie from not too long ago that people are just pretending is a real thing! Ha!

The nonsense of acting like you almost care and just want people to see that having a nonhuman identity is harming them, that it came from transphobic places and oh you would just be so better off not doing this thing I refuse to believe is deeper than doing it on purpose to be quirky. Ha! Hahaha!

Even if alterhumans didn't exist, transphobic people would still be making jokes about how our existence will lead to people identifying as animals (derogatory).

The solution therefore is actually to make nonhuman identification something so normalised it's no longer a viable extreme example to use as a shock tactic. Not to suppress the very real identities of alterhumans who are NOT making up how we feel, AREN'T harming anyone and DO actually deserve to freely express ourselves no matter how unusual and impossible our identities seem. We're here and have always been here so get used to it.

You are not a good person for insisting that any group whose identity you don't understand is clearly doing it for attention and should stop because of the logical fallacy that their identity harms another vulnerable group or themselves despite evidence to the contrary. You are not a good person for insisting that identifying outside of the physically obvious makes you 'insane' which is obviously bad and shameful. /Sarc

In fact, ironically, you sound like the average transphobic person who thinks trans people are destroying gender and thus society and are insane for thinking they're a different gender or the average exorsexist who insists that nonbinary identities are also ruining the trans community and making trans people look bad and it's insane to be any gender that's not one binary gender and that in both cases one should hide ones true feelings of self in order to avoid bullying and make others feel better. Not that ya know, people should just not bully other people for being different.

You're right this isn't about the nonhuman packers, not really, this is about disapproving of the existence of alterhumans and everything we do. This is about attacking people for being different and stirring up made up issues about the community. This is about demonising the different as mentally unwell and the mentally unwell as deplorable and harmful if allowed to be in the public at all.

Meanwhile plenty of people actually don't care at all if you identify outside of your species even if they don't really believe you and think you're just being quirky. Why should any alterhuman hide what they are just to get others approval anyway? By that logic all queer people should also 'think, is it worth it?' and come to the conclusion of 'no' since as OP mentioned it's far more likely to be targeted for that reason and much worse things are more likely to happen.

And to answer your question, is my identity as alterhuman 'worth it'? Yes, especially to spite people like you.

So you go ahead and sit on your throne of bullshit, anon, because the only thing which stinks is your ignorance and sense of self righteousness.

May I expand. It’s not about the “animal packers” and etc. I believe that it’s nobody’s business. The issue is how nonsensical it sounds to say “I am an animal” out loud. People will laugh at you. You will damage your own relationships. Think. Is it worth it? And why do people act like that? Because it’s crazy.

There’s a popular conservative lie that is spread around of “litter boxes in schools” and “people identifying as animals” and that’s NOT REAL. It comes from a complete fabrication to make trans people look worse. Don’t try to make it real. I don’t care if it’s “been around for decades” that doesn’t change anything. It’s not about streamlining your identity to make it more digestible to outsiders who don’t understand, it’s about the threshold where “identity” crosses between “genuine insanity” and if you can’t SEE the clear line between those two things then there isn’t much hope for you.

Hey anon! Great to see you actually just hate therians! Hooray!

Even longer post, will also be under a cut!

Firstly, addressing the very popular but very wrong lie of "kids are using litter boxes in schools": These are for service animals. These are put in place by schools who have students (or teachers) who have disabilities that require them to bring a service animal to school with them. This has nothing to do with therianthropy, it is just a lie that Tiktok caught on to and spread it like wildfire.

(Now, to add in before this section, this isn’t to “throw clinical zoanthropes under the bus” with therian discourse. There’s nothing “wrong” with clinical zoanthropes, just like there’s nothing “wrong” with therians. I am simply stating facts. That’s it. I think it’s important to be educated about things like this. Let’s continue.)

Secondly, therianthropy is not "being crazy". It is not a mental illness, it is not a disability, it is not wrong. However, you may be interested im learning about "clinical lycanthropy" (or zoanthropy, different from therianthropy). This is an extremely rare, delusion-based psychiatric syndrome characterized by patients believing that they can or have physically transformed into a non-human animal. It is essentially the delusion that one can shapeshift into a werewolf (or similar animal). It is associated with psychosis (aka delusions and hallucinations). It is considered to be an expression of a psychotic or dissociative episode caused by another condition (like DID, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, or depression).

This article describes a report done on clinical lycanthropy. Over 130 articles were screened and between 1852 and 2020, there were 43 cases of clinical lycanthropy identified. That's right. 43. Now, have you seen how many therians are on Tiktok? Yeah, more than 43. And they're definitely not from 1852. So how can you say that therianthropy is "being crazy"? And don't say "they're just delusional" because the only delusion that somewhat accurately presents like therianthropy is that of clinical lycan/zoanthropy. Professionals would know if someone is genuinely delusional, but why would they care about such a small group of people in the world?

There are also studies done on patients with clinical lycanthropy actually have differences in their brains. The part of the brain known to be involved with represent body shape can display unusual activation in patients with clinical lycanthropy, showing that when patients report their body changing and shapeshifting, they may genuinely be perceiving those feelings. Have therians ever claimed to you that they can feel their bones and skin and limbs shifting and changing to become that of a non-human animal? No, because therianthropy is not a delusion. There are often no physical feelings in the body of a therian when they, for example, experience phantom tails or ears etc. That begs the question, would you say that an amputee experiencing phantom limbs is psychotic?

So, people identifying as a non-human animal is real! There are reported cases of it in the medical field! Shocking, right? It must be crazy to you that there are documented medical cases of people identifying as animals, allllll the way back to 18-goddamn-52.

Thirdly, therianthropy has nothing to do with being trans. It never has, it never will. No one has ever claimed it to be. Being trans means that your assigned sex and birth does not match with how you perceive yourself and how you want others to perceive you. What you might be thinking of is being trans-species. This is okay too! It just means that your assigned species at birth (human, obviously) does not match with how you perceive yourself and how you want others to perceive you. See how I used two different words? Species and gender?

Plus not all therians are trans-species, like myself! Generally I don't have much of a desire to physically become a wolf or a cat or a shark. I'm comfortable being perceived as a human, even though sometimes I just wanna wag my tail and run around and put my ears back and growl! I know that some therians feel super uncomfortable in their human body and wish that they could change! And that's where the species-affirming packers come in. It's like being transgender but it is not! And no one is claiming it is.

Another thing is that a lot of therians tend to be neurodivergent. But you're not saying that therianthropy is ableist, are you? No, you're just trying to connect two dots that are miles away. Neurodiverse people can feel a disconnection with humanity, and that can explain for some people their alterhumanity. Of course, not all therians are neurodivergent nor do they believe that their neurodiversity are the root of their alterhumanity. Have a look at this poll from Reddit, almost two thirds of participants indicated that they're neurodiverse!

Now, being neurodivergent calls for being discriminated against in and of itself. Same with being LBGT+. And being any race except white. Do you really think that therians who are LBGT+ are going to be discriminated against more for their alterhumanity than their sexual orientation or gender? No. Do you really think that therians who are neurodiverse are going to be discriminated against more for their alterhumanity than their disabilities? No again. Do you really think that therians who are POC are going to be discriminated against more for their alterhumanity than their race? Absolutely not.

Ultimately, people have been discriminating against POC, gay, trans and neurodivergent people long before they were called "weird" for being a therian. People have been killed over simply being gay or trans or neurodivergent or . Therians may receive death threats, yes, and that is disgusting behaviour from hateful people, but no one (to my knowledge) has been killed simply for being a therian. The discrimination against LGBT+, neurodivergent and POC communities runs way way way deeper than anyone saying "therians are weird". Do you think that therians in these communities are going to be more worried about being laughed at because they're a therian than being literally slaughtered for their race, disabilities, sexual orientation or gender? No! There are way worse problems for people to worry about than people saying they identify as animals! It truly is not that deep to say "I identify as an animal". Some people identify as inanimate objects but you don't seem to care about that (although there is nothing wrong with identifying as an inanimate object).

Also I can't even comprehend what you're talking about "streamlining your identity to make it more digestible". How is identifying as an animal more digestible than identifying as a man instead of a female like I was born as?

[lunarharp]

"Found out" set in kind of a made-up chapter where the girls are in trouble, or something.

[hauntingblue]

I THINK!! usopp and nami (and maybe others too) need to learn haki. They said you can't be in the new world without it because everyone is just so incredibly strong and here we are. They are getting headbutted to death and can't do anything about it (their abilities are being nerfed for the plot I know) but they could be SO GOOD if they could do something more idk.... we saw how strong nami was with zeus.... but she has fought with her bostaff before and that just disappeared... nami haki bostaff you will live in my dreams I guess

[two-person-job]

idk the "i only know a few mutuals of ieva’s from mutual friends while i was ceneid (who i won’t be mentioning here), but i do know a few, and i havent ever followed (or even heard) of a private blog from them." part gets me because me and ivy are friends (i love you ivy <3) and elise had this blog. elise was on this blog. she had a tag. THIS IS A PRIVATE BLOG!! SHE HAD AND KNEW ABOUT MY PRIVATE BLOG BTU IG THAT DOESNT COUNT!!! UGHHHH