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lostfracturess · 5 months

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【 ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇʀɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ 】 ch. 01

"it must be amusing for you." "don't even think for a second that i find it amusing if you get hurt." the seriousness in his tone made you pause. "let's get you home."

x pairing gojo x f!reader (main), fushiguro x f!reader (jjk universe)

x summary you never wanted to become part of the world of jujutsu sorcerers, yet fate had other plans when the one and only satoru gojo took you under his wing at jujutsu high. but as the lines between student and teacher begin to blur, hidden powers surge to life, and a deadly target is set on your head.

x wc 12.5 k

x warnings [18+] this story contains abusive/possessive behavior, (rough) smut, mature themes, self-destructive behavior, (heavy) angst, graphic depictions of violence/injury/combat, character death, suicidal thoughts. reader discretion is advised.

x author's note so exited to start this series!! dive in and let me know what you think—i love hearing your thoughts! & pls like or repost if you enjoyed, it means the world ♡

series masterlist + ao3 + wattpad

next chapter ->

You had always known that Gojo Satoru was a sorcerer feared by many. But it wasn't until that moment, when your blade was easily tossed aside by his bare hands, that it really hit you. He stood before you; signature stupid smile playing on his lips. "I knew you had potential."

The satisfaction in his voice clawed at your ego. No, you couldn't let him have that satisfaction. Not after the grueling effort you had put into this fight. Barely able to breathe, you shot back, "Don't talk shit, Gojo. You're not even trying!"

But you had already reached your limits, perhaps even surpassed them. Your legs trembled with exhaustion, threatening to give way beneath you. You fought to keep your composure, leaning on your knees for support instead of collapsing completely. Gojo lowered his gaze and peered down at you through his sunglasses. His voice dripped with irony, "I don't want to hurt you—yet."

His blue eyes captured yours; making your skin crawl. How can anyone be so arrogant.

Your imagination danced on the edge of danger; picturing what it might feel like to wrap your hands around his neck, tightening your grip just a fraction to erase that stupid smile of his before you sank to the ground.

Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara rushed over to you from the side of the training ground. "Are you all right?"

You gathered what strength you had left and straightened up, trying to hide your weakness, though your trembling form betrayed you. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Gojo held out his hand to help you to your feet, his mocking smile still lingering. You hesitated. Eventually, it was Megumi who reached out to you, and you took his hand without a second thought. As you did, Gojo's eyebrow raised slightly, a silent challenge in his stance.

It was only a few days ago that your world collided with this white-haired, self-satisfied man. Since then, everything had changed. Gojo had invited you to join the Tokyo Jujutsu High—a world you'd wanted to avoid at all costs. However, your acceptance of his offer had marked the beginning of a new chapter in your life. But it had also revealed your own limitations. Painfully clear.

Somehow you wondered if you should have declined it.

"It's pretty impressive how you've picked all this up by yourself," Megumi's words echoed in your mind. Yet, you couldn't help feeling like a fool.

"I'll do my best to catch up with you as soon as possible," you vowed.

"I'm sure you will," Gojo said, his tone surprisingly gentle. Your gazes locked again, and for a moment, it felt as though the entire world held its breath. There was an unspoken connection—an invisible force drawing you closer to him. But you fought to resist its allure, trying to convince yourself that it was merely a figment of your imagination.

Gojo finally broke the spell and turned away. "Tomorrow, 6 a.m.—cardio training!" There was a hint of a joke in his voice, though it sounded more like an order. Groans and protests filled the air. "Latecomers do an extra lap!" he declared before he disappeared from sight.

"Ugh, that guy!" Nobara huffed. "As if he's ever an early riser himself." You turned towards her.

"He strolls into our training, what, four hours late?" Nobara complained, rolling her eyes. "Then has the audacity to whine that we're the slow ones. Total jerk."

Yuji placed a hand on her shoulder. "Maybe we should join in—sleep in, stroll in late. He won't even notice."

"Deal!" Nobara agreed eagerly.

Megumi shook his head. "If he catches wind of this, you're dead meat."

They scoffed, dismissing his warning. "Like he'd ever find out."

"Are you scared?" Yuji teased Megumi, giving him a playful nudge.

Megumi finally relented. "Oh, for goodness' sake. Fine, it's a deal. Tomorrow, 8 a.m. sharp."

Nobara countered, grinning mischievously, "Make it ten!"

You did your best to hide the exhaustion racing through your body as the banter between them continued. The adrenaline that fueled your earlier battle with Gojo was fading fast, leaving only the harsh reality of your physical limits. Your legs trembled. The world around you blurred. Your body had reached its breaking point. With a heavy sigh, your strength gave way, and you collapsed to the ground. Gojo's stupid grin still vivid in your mind.

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

Your room felt suffocating after the humbling encounter with Gojo. The four walls closing in as you sought an escape from the restless thoughts in your mind. You couldn't see through his facade, unable to decipher the true meaning behind his words that day—the day he had taken you in and you followed. You blindly followed. You must be utterly foolish, there was no doubt about it.

Despite your best efforts to cast them aside, the thoughts lingered, an ache in your chest that refused to be dismissed. Sleep eluded you; restlessness drove you out of your room. You wandered aimlessly through the quiet corridors in the midnight silence that contrasted sharply with the school's usual chaos.

In the dimly lit kitchen, you brewed a late-night cup of strong coffee. With each sip, you questioned whether abandoning the fragment of family you had left had been the right desicion. Or, had you blindly entered Satoru Gojo's complicated world in vain? It was a reality where every vulnerability was exposed—a constant reminder of your weakness. Perhaps you weren't capable of saving anyone after all. Was it all a futile endeavor that would ultimately prove Gojo's cautioning correct?

"Little late for a caffeine kick, don't you think?" A voice—all too familiar— broke the stillness.

You turned, heart pounding in your chest, to find Gojo strolling in. There was a weariness in his step. His usually vibrant blue of his eyes dimmed. Shrouded with shadows.

"I suppose I'll be fine", you replied, raising your mug to your lips. "What's your excuse for the midnight stroll?"

Gojo let out a sigh, leaning against the door frame. "Insomnia," he admitted, frustration lacing his words. You took a sip of your coffee, studying the tired lines on his face. "Want one?"

"To worsen the situation?"

"You seem like it couldn't get any worse."

"Charming," he replied, his lips curving into a slight grin. His sharp yet weary eyes locked onto yours, searching and contemplative. After a brief pause, he declined, "Unfortunately, that won't help with the real reason I can't sleep."

"Let me guess—," A sense of unease fluttered in your stomach. "—losing sleep over bearing the title of the world's strongest sorcerer?" You aimed for a playful tone, hoping to cut through the growing tension.

Gojo took a step closer. The weariness on his face becoming more apparent as the gap between you diminished. A soft, teasing chuckle escaped his lips, sending a shiver down your spine. "Imagine thinking that would lose me a wink of sleep."

Oh, he's so full of himself.

Your fingers unconsciously clenched around your cup. "So, what is it then?"

"Oh, it's you, of course, love."

"Don't talk shit." Your pulse quickened, an accelerating undertow as he breached the last remains of distance. His closeness felt almost suffocating in its intensity, every nerve tingling, acutely aware of the warmth radiating from him, a tangible pressure against your skin.

With deliberate intent, he leaned forward, reaching over you to grab a cup. His chest hovering dangerously close to your face. Enveloped by his proximity, your senses were overwhelmed by the scent of his cologne. Your body involuntarily tensed.

"I know what you want to ask." His form towered above you, yet somehow, it felt like he was enveloping you entirely.

"Don't pretend to know me," a brittle edge sharpened your voice; your frustration at his arrogance boiling over. This man had the audacity to act as though he had you all figured out when he knew next to nothing. However, the subtle brush of Gojo's chest against your shoulder as he took the cup was enough to sent a subtle, stomach-churning twist through your abdomen.

He lingered there, gaze unwavering and intensifying as he leaned closer. The closeness of his face—the warmth of his breath against your skin—setting your heart racing. "Oh love, you're an open book to me."

Time seemed to halt.

"We have a lot in common," he remarked, setting his cup down on the counter you leaned against. His fingers grazed yours ever so slightly—a seemingly casual touch that left a lingering sensation. He rested his hands on the countertop, just inches from yours. Capturing you.

"We're not the same." Your gaze narrowed. "I'm not that arrogant."

"Oh, love, who hurt you?" he mocked. "You talk as if there's a dagger where your heart should be."

"You should know that only to well," you shot back.

Gojo's eyes lingered on yours. His jaw clenched, fingers digging into the hardwood of the counter. Why was he like that. Acting like you're his puppet—acting like he knows you will fall for him. But as soon as the first light of day touches the ground, he pulls away.

He broke the silence. "You should get some rest," he advised. "Don't think I'll go easy in tomorrow's training just because you're the rookie here." He began to turn away, But you weren't finished with him.

"Why did you say that to me on that day?"

He paused. His back turned to you. "I just know you."

This man's arrogance is unmatched.

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

A piercing scream shattered the tranquil pre-dawn silence. The urge to crawl back under the covers was strong, but before you could make up your mind, your bedroom door slammed open with an abrupt force.

"It's 6, training time!" Gojo, already dressed in workout attire, radiated a fierce commitment that rippled through his frame.

"What—?" Your groan, still groggy and barely coherent. Boldly, he marched over to you and yanked the covers away.

"Gojo!!!" Indignation flared as you clutched at your scanty pyjama shorts. Now exposed to his gaze. "Privacy!"

He pulled back. His face flickered with amusement. Still enshrouded in sleep, you grabbed the nearest object and flung it at the intruding teacher. Gojo effortlessly dodged the flying missile, as if he had anticipated your reaction.

"Good morning to you too."

You barely restrained yourself from throwing another object his way. Rubbing your eyes in a futile attempt to focus, you were already plotting various ways to metaphorically kill him in your mind. Clearly, he had reverted to his old childish self after his overbearing behavior the previous night.

He closed the gap and gently brushed a loose strand of hair from your face. His order delivered with a flirtatious edge. "Get ready." And, in a blink, he was gone.

What the hell.

Collapsing back onto your bed, a pillow found its way into your embrace, muffling the scream bubbling from your depths.

What's wrong with this man?

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

What's wrong with this man? You thought. Again.

The question ran through your mind, fueling frustration and anger even as exhaustion threatened to overwhelm you. Your eyes drifted to Yuji and Nobara, equally sleep-deprived, shuffling the laps around the training ground alongside you in a semi-conscious daze. Despite Gojo's complaints of insomnia just yesterday, his current energy level stood in harsh contrast to your own lethargy.

The sun rose, drenching the training ground in an unforgiving blaze. Heat surged through your head, and you couldn't discern whether it was due to the scorching heat or the onset of a fever. Just as you were on the brink, Gojo tossed each of you a water bottle. He grinned, as if sadistically relishing your collective exhaustion.

Yuji slumped down beside you; his weariness mirroring your own. It was evident that both of you were unaccustomed to the brutal training. Amidst the agony, a strange sense of satisfaction seeped through you as you accepted that this torment was now your daily reality.

"After a romp through the forest, we can wrap up for the day," Gojo declared. He seemed to genuinely relish watching his students push themselves to their physical limits.

"Well—" Megumi stood up, his sturdy presence cutting through the stifling heat. He brushed off his shorts before addressing you.

"Stick with me, and you won't get lost," he offered gently.

"Get lost?"

"The forest route is pretty winding. It's easy to lose track."

"Ah, got it," you replied, though you secretly doubted that a forest in the heart of Tokyo could be all that difficult to navigate. Megumi offered a hand, his smile reassuring. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Gojo's scrutinizing gaze lingering on both of you. As you shifted to meet his eyes, he quickly averted his gaze, leaving a sense of unease. Perhaps it was just your imagination.

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

Fuck.

You were alone. Alone in the forest you thought wouldn't be that difficult to navigate. The irony.

The unexpected toll your lack of stamina took on you was something you hadn't anticipated. How much time had passed since you'd been separated from them? The nagging uncertainty clawed at you as you sank onto a fallen log beside what seemed to be a faint trail through the woods. A heavy moan escaped your lips. "Aw, hell."

"Hold on, guys!" Yuji called out, his voice echoing through the forest, as he realized your absence.

Megumi wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Where did she go?"

"The real question is, how long has she been gone?" Nobara added.

"You two keep moving forward. I'll double back for her," Megumi declared. Without hesitation, he pivoted, retracing the footprints back into the depth of the forest.

Back at the training ground, Yuji and Nobara, their expressions painted with weariness, converged with Gojo. The latter, lounging nonchalantly with a non-alcoholic cocktail perched beside him under a shady umbrella, seemed utterly pleased with himself.

"Asshole," Nobara hissed as she observed him. Yuji quickly filled Gojo in on your misadventure in the forest and Megumi's mission to find you.

"Lost?" Gojo's reply came, unexpectedly zesty as he sprang from his laid-back position. "How can you just lose someone?"

Yuji's eyebrows arched. He couldn't remember Gojo being that enthusiastic the time he got lost in the forest in his early days of training. In fact, Gojo had been seemingly unconcerned back then. He'd wandered aimlessly for hours before eventually escaping the woody maze. Now, witnessing Gojo's fervent reaction to your getting lost, it seemed oddly out of character.

Satoru rubbed the back of his head. His eyebrows furrowed. "I'll go after her."

Navigating through the dense woods—sense of direction completely lost—you aimlessly staggered on. You pondered how the hell you could get stuck in a place like this. Suddenly, a sharp crack of a twig or branch behind you ignited a spark of panic in your bloodstream. You swiveled hastily, twisting your ankle in the process, and tumbled down a slope.

"Carp, Crap, Crap!"

You felt a small stream of blood trickle down your leg, momentarily blurring your vision with discomfort.

This couldn't get any worse.

Leaning back, you assessed your situation, feeling a tidal wave of defeat sweep over you. The forest seemed endless—the amount of time you'd been wandering its dark recesses unclear. The sun, filtering its fading light through the dense leaves, slowly descended toward the horizon. Fatigue washed over you. Heat rose in your skull.

"Just a moment—," you muttered to yourself; fatigue pulling you in.

"What the hell you think you doing?" A voice—achingly familiar—sliced through your hazy awareness. Gradually, your eyes fluttered open.

It got worse.

"Gojo?" Your whisper was frail, barely a ripple in the air.

Of course. It had to be Gojo who found you in that state.

In the next instant, his hand was tenderly pressed against your forehead. His touch causing shivers running through your form as he whispered, "You're burning up."

It was only now that you realized the haze you felt was probably due to a fever setting in. You tried to downplay it. "I got lost," a pathetic excuse for your current dire straits. His eyes closed briefly, releasing a weighted sigh.

"Don't do this to me."

Before you could process his words, he quickly stripped off his jacket. He wrapped it tightly around the bleeding wound on your inner thigh. A wince escaped you as you tried to sit up, desperate to show some semblance of strength.

"I'm fine!" you gasped out. Your swift action rewarded with a searing pain radiating through your skull. At this point, you couldn't decide which was worse—the throbbing headache or the dangerously close proximity of Satoru Gojo's hands between your legs.

"I don't need your help!"

"Oh really?" Gojo's gaze held you prisoner as you strained to remain calm under his unyielding gaze. His fingers clung to your skin—a cruel proximity that made your stomach clench. "You'll have to accept help at some point."

The world seemed to blur for a split second, almost causing you to forget the position of his hands. Your lips parted, but no coherent response found its way out of your throat. A boyish smile played on his lips as he shifted his attention back to securing his jacket more tightly around your injured leg.

"Your ankle is hurt too," he observed, his tone matter-of-fact, though his eyes sparkled with a hint of amusement. It must have been quite a show for him to see you in such a vulnerable state. Weakened and wounded. Particularly after your foolish display of capability when you first met—boldly declaring that you didn't need training at his school. Looking back, it was just ridiculous.

"It must be amusing for you."

He looked at you; somewhat hurt. "Don't even think for a second that I find it amusing if you get hurt." The seriousness in his tone that made you pause.

"Let's get you home," he said after a moment. With effortless strength he lifted you into his arms, causing you to instinctively cling to his neck. As he held you, his eyes never left your face, "Are you all right?"

You nodded. However, your eyes shied away from locking with his, since that meant hovering mere inches from his face. You figured it best to avoid straight-up confronting his features, considering your entire form was already securely wrapped in his arms. Perhaps it was the fever, but you allowed your head to rest on his shoulder. You absorbed the comforting warmth he radiated after what felt like an eternity of lying on the frosty moss. His hands held you tightly, as if afraid you might slip through his fingers again. You found yourself pressed even closer to him, finding comfort in his protective embrace.

"Gojo, why—" you began, but before your words could fully form, they were abruptly interrupted by Megumi's appearance.

"Is everything okay?" His voice echoed from above the embankment.

"She's fine." Gojo's reply was swift. For a fleeting second, you thought you heard a mumbled addition, something whispered for his ears alone. "She's fine, she's with me."

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

The next thing you recalled is waking up in an unfamiliar, sterile room. The orange and red glow of the setting sun softly lit the room. As you cautiously sat up, you noticed bandages tightly wrapped around the entirety of your left ankle. Oddly, it didn't hurt, which made you suspect they must've given you some painkiller. Your slightly blurry vision somewhat confirmed that.

A soft voice cuts through your foggy consciousness, drawing your eyes to the familiar white-haired man seated next to your bed. He looks utterly exhausted. His hair disheveled. Faint dark circles underlining his eyes. You can't help but wonder if he's been sleeping right there in that chair, given the casually thrown blanket on its back.

"You're up?" he asked, his voice betraying his weariness.

"Why are you here, Gojo?"

Your question carried more seriousness than you intended. Or perhaps you intended it to be as serious as it appeared. You had wanted to draw a clear line, emphasizing that it wasn't natural for him to sleep next to you—to watch over you the whole day just because you had a fever and a few bruises.

You didn't want him doing what he was doing. You didn't want him—here. You didn't want what it was inflicting.

"Quite the greeting for your hero, don't you think?" He said with a playful smirk.

A heavy silence enveloped the room. You searched his gaze for any hint of why he was there, though deep down you already knew the answer. But you struggled with it, trying to suppress and deny the truth.

"Aren't you glad to see me?" He asked after a pause.

"Answer my question first."

A spark of amusement lit up his tired eyes—a soft chuckle escaped him.

"What?"

Still chuckling, he managed to say, "I really shouldn't be here." He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. "Pathetic, right?"

"I just wanted to make sure you're okay," he eventually admitted. But you refused to accept such an obvious lie.

"That's not it—," you urged him to reveal the truth. The truth you didn't even want to hear. But somehow you couldn't stop; couldn't hold it in any longer. His raised eyebrow silently dared you to keep going.

"You shouldn't—" you began, but your voice trailed off—your courage waning. Gojo remained silent. His jaw tightened slightly. "—you shouldn't be here."

He starred at you. His gaze was both intimidating and captivating. Part of you wished to escape the intensity of his gaze, while another part craved it, yearned for his eyes to stay on you. Briefly, your eyes flickered to his lips, still curved in that enigmatic grin. You fleetingly wondered if they belonged to someone else. The thought flickered away as quickly as it came, leaving a strange knot in your stomach.

"If you tell me to leave, I'll leave," he muttered.

With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself up from the chair and in a few steps was beside your bed, sitting down next to you. His closeness enveloped you, leaving every possible answer stuck in your throat.

"Do you want me to leave?" His lips were dangerously close to yours. Your heart raced in your chest, drowning out any rational thought. His cold fingers traced a slow, shivering path along your collarbone. No. But you didn't want to give in—not to him.

"I thought you could read me like an open book?"

"I can." His eyes threatened to consume you, a dangerous desire simmering beneath them. "But I want to hear you say it."

Your pulse quickened, yet defiantly, you tilted your chin up, a subtle challenge. "I won't say it."

A wicked, almost predatory smile gradually tugged at the corners of his lips.

"Stubborn," he observed, his voice husky, layered with a desire that threatened to dissolve the very resolve holding you together. He leaned closer, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the warmth of his breath against your skin. His lips brushed ever-so-lightly against your cheek. "I like that about you."

You inhaled sharply—a barely perceptible catch in your breath, yet you knew he noticed—he heard. Every muscle in your body was on fire, fighting to hold your resolve, refusing to collapse under the overwhelming attraction that crackled in the air, buzzing and sparking between you like a charged current.

"I won't act on those feelings unless you tell me to," he continued, his fingers now tracing a slow, torturous path across your lips.

Inside, something was screaming, Do it, just do it. But you didn't yield, stuck in your refusal to give in, especially to this arrogant man. You couldn't give him that satisfaction, even though your entire body was begging for it.

Gojo's eyes snapped into sharper focus, flashing with frustration. The unspoken challenge hanging heavy. Abruptly, he leaned back. The string of tension snapping with the motion.

"Time's up," he declared, his voice almost nonchalant. "Gotta go."

And just like that, he was slipping through the door. Your words lagging behind him, unable to reach his departing figure.

No.

Wait.

Should you feel a sense of relief now? Relieved that? Nothing happened ? Or should you have found your voice—spoken your wants?

The weight of the uncertainty bore down, unbearably so. He was gone, and the anticipation that had swelled within you slowly faded. Your hand, trembling, found your lips, as if trying to preserve the lingering essence of his proximity. Damn it. This can't be happening. You can't allow yourself to fall for your him—especially not him.

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

Sunlight peeked through the curtains, dragging you out of your dreams back into the harsh reality. You groaned, blinking against the bright morning light. Memories of last night with Gojo crept into your consciousness. Every word, every charged glance, played over in your mind. The unanswered 'what ifs' circling like vultures.

The nurse's appearance rustled you from your thoughts. After ensuring you were armed with painkillers and adorned with a stern string of warnings to prioritize rest and healing, she left you alone to battle with the thoughts that threatened to consume you.

With Shoko inaccessible, tucked away in a meeting in Kyoto, the painkillers and rest would have to suffice, at least for now. But even a mere glance at the pill bottle sent you back into a haze.

For at least one day, you reluctantly followed the nurse's advice. Your room overlooked the school courtyard, and through the window you could see the other students practicing diligently. However, every attempt to sneak a peek over the windowsill was met with a scowl from none other than Gojo. His gaze bored into you, as if he could see through your attempts to defy the doctor's orders.

"Rest!" he shouted at you, his voice carrying a tone of authority that sent shivers down your spine. You quickly backed away from the window. Your heart pounding as you sought refuge behind the closed curtains.

But you can't afford to rest—not fall further behind than you already are.

Though your ankle was no longer swollen, it still hurt. So did your inner thigh injury. Still, the pain was bearable—a constant reminder of your weakness. You hated it. How pathetic you appeared compared to your peers. Damn it. You weren't here to bask in rest and recovery.

Fuck this shit.

You knew of an abandoned training room on the far east of the school grounds. That night, you made it your secret training spot to practice the movements you'd observed earlier in the day, determined not to fall behind.

It was oddly amusing. This dissonance between willingly risking your life on the line during missions and the near imprisonment in the infirmary for something as relatively minor as a sprained ankle while on school grounds. Yet, that night, your resolve was ironclad, unyielding against the sharp pain that shot through your ankle with every step.

Agian. Again. Again.

You forged ahead. Each motion meticulously crafted in a relentless pursuit of perfection. Repetition became your ally, forms executed over and over again, each one a bit sharper, a bit closer to flawless precision. Your mind drowned out everything but the training.

Yet it wasn't enough.

Still not perfect.

Again.

Suddenly, the training room door burst open, slamming violently against the wall. Does this man not know how to open a door like a normal human being?

"Didn't I tell you to rest?" The voice, undeniably Gojo's, pierces the stillness.

"I can't fall behind."

Why is he even here? Is he stalking you or what?

"I told you to rest," his voice laced with anger—unfamiliar and unsettling—ricochets against the walls of the dusty room. But you didn't stop.

"That woman," he hissed. In the blink of an eye, he was standing in front of you. Your katana, paralyzed mid-swing by his unyielding grip, halts you, forcing your form into an unwanted pause.

"Gojo!"

"You're of no use to anyone injured!" Gojo's voice echoed. His grip on the katana firm but not threatening.

The room fell into stillness.

His crystal blue eyes held yours. There was something unsettling in them. Was it anger? Concern? His gaze paused you for a moment, but anger quickly replaced it.

"Stop pretending you care about me, Gojo," you snapped.

Effortlessly, Gojo claimed the katana and tossed it aside. The metallic sound of its collision sharp in the empty air. With a single, deliberate step, he bridged the physical distance between you—a mere breath away. His proximity dangerously close.

"How can I not care," his eyes narrowed. "—especially when you look at me with those sad, pretty eyes."

"Don't act like you know my story."

"Oh, I do!" He shot back; his voice sharp. "—yours is a classic story of tragedy—a life marred by loss, seeking not vengeance against the world or its curses, but against yourself—"

"Enough!"

"—because you think you're too weak!—" His verbal onslaught persisted. "—you couldn't protect them, so now you're punishing yourself, aren't you?"

"Stop it already!"

"—you're chasing self-destruction as atonement."

His words were finely-honed—cutting. The atmosphere crackling with each uttered syllable, neither willing to back down as emotions boiled over.

"You know next to nothing!"

"Oh love, I see it! I know it!" Gojo pressed further. "I'm trying to save you from yourself!"

Your fists clenched. "I don't need saving, especially not from you!"

You both paused to catch a breath, letting the heated argument fade away. It was as if an unspoken agreement to pause was made, and in that instant, all the stubborn resistance fell away. The tension lightened and, for a brief moment, you both let your guard down, replacing the previous anger.

"From the moment I first saw you, I knew—" Gojo's words trailed softly, barely more than a whisper. His fingers delicately swept a stray of hair from your shoulders. His touch, gentle and uncharacteristically tender.

"I knew what you were suffering," he murmured, his words torturing you, "—you had that look in your eyes that I know only too well."

You don't know me.

Your heart raced. You felt the heat of his presence on your skin—too close to your skin. You almost had to lean back to avoid feeling his breath on your lips. Silence enveloped him. His gaze anchored to yours. Longing and hesitation flickered in his eyes.

His hand moved from your shoulder to your cheek, sending shivers cascading with every tender touch. "Those damn pretty sad eyes," he whispered. Your knees threatened to give way, the pain in your ankle dissolving into the distant consciousness.

"Satoru," you whispered, your voice barely audible as you longed for him to bridge the last inch that separated you. Your stomach tightened as the tension between you reached an unbearable peak. "What's stopping you?"

His eyes flashed, dancing between your lips and your gaze, silent desire boldly painted across his features. It was as if an invisible force anchored his focus to your mouth, a force against which he strenuously battled. A shaky exhale slipped from him. His frame visibly quivering, caught in a tangle of longing and restraint.

"I told you I won't act on these feelings unless you tell me to," he hissed against your lips. It was a breathless, heart-pounding closeness in which the warmth of your shared breaths mingled.

I can't.

No.

I can't.

But you wanted to.

Fuck how bad you wanted to.

Yet, silence lingered. Your words lost—unspoken.

But he saw it. Within the depths of your gaze, he saw your inner struggle, a silent war waged against yourself. And then he turned away. His posture stiffened, suggesting an inability or unwillingness to witness your turmoil any longer. The atmosphere changed, palpably altering the space between you both.

"I'm sorry," he began, uttering words that seemed to pain him as they spilled forth, "This is quite inappropriate of me."

Sorrow pierced your heart, acknowledging the potential of what could have been, now slipping through your fingers. His restraint cast a bitter aftertaste into the air, mingling with the still-lingering, undeniable pull that had initially drawn you together.

"Let's end this," he declared. It was a bittersweet end to a moment filled with longing, leaving you both with a lingering ache in your hearts, pondering over the alternate paths your relationship might have ventured down, given different circumstances.

"Satoru, wait—," your whisper barely tiptoed into the atmosphere, a delicate plea in its undertones. This resistance, the internal battle to admit that you want him, seemed almost a tangible pain running, threading through every fiber of your being.

"Go back to bed and rest," his words were cold. Without meeting your eyes, he turned and then left. His retreating footsteps echoed in the empty space.

He was gone.

And yet he took something invaluable with him. It struck you then, like a relentless tide battering the coast—you were in love with him. A love you'd refused to confess, and now it was exacting its price—costing you everything.

Now it was too late. The pain in your chest was unbearable. Your heart had become a prisoner to him, and there was nothing you could do to change that.

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

Another week passed, each day without Satoru's training sessions bringing you an unexpected sense of relief. The prospect of avoiding him had now become your silver lining, offering you a chance to breathe without the intensity of his presence bearing down on you. As you returned to the training grounds and joined your fellow teammates, you made an effort to maintain a facade of normalcy, concealing the inner conflict that still lingered beneath the surface.

Back to business.

Though it felt anything but normal. Every fiber of your being fought to avoid his gaze, to keep your distance from him as much as possible. However, given that he was your teacher, the task was almost impossible. You couldn't help but notice his every move, his every glance, the way his aura effortlessly commanded attention.

Despite your best efforts to focus on your training, your thoughts frequently strayed to the white-haired man who had turned your world upside down. However, his ability to act as if nothing between you two had happened sliced through you more deeply than anticipated.

Megumi seemed to sense the tension surrounding you. After the training session, he took you aside, "Is something wrong?" he asked, his voice genuinely worried.

You tried to brush it off, thinking of a logical explanation. "No, it's nothing," you replied, although it was far from the truth. Being around Satoru was unbearable.

"it seems like you're not exactly at ease around Gojo?"

You shifted uncomfortably, "No, it's not like that," you replied, although it was precisely that. Damn it, could the others already sense it? You really weren't cut out for acting. Sensing your discomfort, he took a step back, realizing he might be prying too much.

"Sorry, forget it," they said gently, snapping you out of your thoughts. "I didn't mean to pry." You offered a strained smile, but it did little to mask your feelings, and he could tell.

After a moment, he changed the subject. "Have you seen the new movie coming out this week?" he asked, shifting the conversation to a lighter topic. "I really wanted to see it, but I guess the others aren't interested," he looked a bit embarrassed, his eyes averted as he continued. "It's an arthouse movie, so I understand if you don't want to see it either—"

"Yes!" you practically shouted, surprising him and even catching yourself off guard with the overwhelming enthusiasm in your response. The sheer excitement in your answer startled him, but he couldn't hide the subtle smile that tugged at his lips.

"So, Friday night?"

You nodded with a sense of anticipation, contemplating whether this could indeed be considered a date. You undeniably liked Megumi, there was no question about it, but Satoru's lingering presence still held a significant place in your thoughts and emotions. Whatever his intentions were in asking you out, you were determined to savor the moment and use it as a welcome distraction from the ever-present specter of Satoru.

The week raced by, and the anticipation of the upcoming movie date with Megumi was a delightful respite from Satoru—or, at the very least, a fleeting escape.

You had taken extra care in selecting your outfit for the occasion. Granted, it was just a trip to the cinema, and the dim lighting would shroud most details, but that hardly mattered. You wanted to feel pretty, if only for your own sake—and, naturally, for Megumi. Standing before the mirror, you painstakingly fine-tuned the last wisps of your hair when a message from him bathed your phone's screen in a soft glow.

"I'll be waiting outside the dormitory."

A subtle smile curved the corners of your lips as you retrieved your bag, your steps carrying you downstairs with an air of confidence. However, fate had a surprise in store for you as you descended the stairs, your world colliding with an unforeseen obstacle.

Satoru stood mere steps below, an inscrutable barrier in your path, showing no signs of yielding. Your heart skipped a beat as your gaze locked with his, momentarily stealing your breath. You attempted to avert your eyes and continue on your way, but he remained resolute, refusing to release you from his hold. This can't be real.

"This is ridiculous, Satoru," you said, anger dripping from your voice. His arm formed an unyielding blockade, his hand clinging to the stair railing.

Raising an eyebrow, he can't suppress a slight smirk. "Oh, 'Satoru' is it?"

"Perhaps 'jerk' would be more fitting," you lock eyes with him, your stare unwavering, his smirk vanishing.

He leaned in, narrowing the gap, his words a sultry whisper against your defiance. "Stubborn as always, huh?" His eyes linger over your form, protective, possessive even. "But I can't allow you to leave with him, not looking like—this."

"Your insecurity is showing."

A silent clash of wills ensues, gazes locked in a wordless combat. How could this man have the audacity to leave you languishing in vain, only to come back, causing chaos within you once more?

"Do you really want to go—with him?" he asked, his voice suddenly soft but tinged with darkness, a tone impossible to ignore. Reluctantly, you met his gaze once more. His usually bright blue eyes now looked tired and dull.

"Yes, I do."

"You're lying."

"I'm not," you replied, avoiding his gaze.

His grip on the railing tightened, his fingers whitening with the force of his grasp. His eyes bored into yours, unrelenting. "You can't even look me in the eye when you say that."

"What do you want from me, Satoru?"

He continued to draw nearer, his arms closing around you until you had no choice but to lean against the stair railing, seeking any distance you could find. "You know what I want" he shot back sharply, his steps closing the distance between you. You could already feel the reassuring warmth of his body, a sensation you had missed painfully. Satoru's gaze lingering on your eyes, then descending to your lips before returning to meet your gaze.

"I can't give you that, you know that."

"That's not fair," he said softly, his lips almost brushing against yours. "Why must you be the one I can't resist?" His voice trailed off. You were only centimetres away from him, and the proximity was almost unbearable. Yet you couldn't move away, trapped in the magnetic field of his presence.

A tempest of frustration swirled within, grappling with the unfairness of it all. Somehow, two souls stumbled upon each other, yet faltered at acknowledging their own feelings, straining to shroud them. Maybe it was fear, maybe something else—but why? Why did he persist, nudging you towards confession, acknowledging that undeniable something, that magnetic pull that irresistibly drew you together? He wanted your confession. But voicing it meant a point of no return, and that path was littered with trouble.

Yet, an undeniable, searing ache, an insatiable yearning, had been quietly brewing from that very first encounter. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, a bewitching heat you'd covertly longed for. His eyes, alight with a ravenous kind of wanting, delicately traced every curve and nuance of your face, engraving each detail as if to preserve it within his very being.

Then a voice called your name, like a saving grace in this moment. Megumi rounded the corner, and peripherally you perceived him, while your gaze stubbornly remained tethered to Satoru. You caught a flicker of change in Satoru's expression. And, reluctantly, he let you walk away.

You made your way towards Megumi, who was visibly stunned by the unusually intimate scene he'd stumbled upon between you and Satoru. Your heart pounded fiercely, the ghost of Satoru's warm breath still haunting your lips. "Don't ask," you uttered quickly, seizing Megumi's wrist and pulling him along with you.

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

Satoru's been absent for a stretch now, and the void, bereft of any news about him, nags at you like an itch forever just out of reach. Weeks have slipped by since that painful moment on the stairs, and his face has been absent since.

While you grapple with the suddenness of his leaving, Yuji, Nobara, and Megumi seem remarkably unbothered. To them, Satoru vanishing on some mission or another secretive undertaking is nothing new. But for you, it's a whole different story. You can't push away the persistent worry that perhaps, his departure has something to do with you.

Memories of him rewind and play back in your mind. Those eyes of Satoru, deep pools that kept their secrets well. His hair, a cascade of silver under the morning sun's tender kiss. Every detail, every secret exchange of looks, every hushed word—it all reverberates through your thoughts.

"Why didn't he take us with him?" Yuji's lament yanked you back to the here and now, his question lingering heavily in the room.

Your head tilted slightly, thoughts swirling around the question. Indeed, it's been an age since you and Satoru teamed up for a mission, especially a demanding one. Recently, your assigned missions have been relatively straightforward, almost as though fate decided you needed to be consumed with other matters—such as your personal life, which has been in a troubled state since your last encounter with the white-haired sorcerer.

"He must have his reasons," Megumi responded, his tone carrying a nuance of comprehension that only further piqued your interest about Satoru's whereabouts.

After that date—or whatever that was—you and Megumi had developed a closer friendship. The times shared together evolved into treasured recollections, and, unknowingly, Megumi became your comfort, a diversion from the turmoil that was Satoru Gojo.

The initial escape from your thoughts about Satoru proved fleeting. In the first few weeks following his disappearance, your mind relentlesslyrevolved around him, despite your best efforts to suppress those thoughts. But as the months rolled on, the fervor of your emotions began to wane. Six months down the line, memories of Satoru seemed to recede into the backdrop. However, it had become unusual for him to be absent for such prolonged periods. The school concocted various imaginative excuses for his extended disappearances, but your attention to them had long since dwindled.

In a sense, his absence became a bittersweet relief. The agony of his presence, laced with unresolved feelings and lingering tension, was replaced by a serene calm. Breathing became a little easier without his looming presence subtly permeating every moment.

"Move over!" Nobara snapped at Yuji, who was hogging more than his fair share of space in front of the bonfire. The tail end of summer was nearing, and the school had arranged a bonfire to herald the onset of autumn.

You and your squad picked a spot distanced from the main throng. As the night unfolded, the levels of alcohol imbibed seemed to surge, and it was both hilarious and slightly alarming to witness your typically stoic superiors in such an unruly condition. Especially Yuji and Nobara appeared to have delved a tad too much into their beverages, with their speech beginning to blur.

Only Megumi and you kept things a bit restrained, partly out of necessity, because someone had to keep tabs on the others. This wasn't the first time a boozy get-together might devolve into scuffles or something worse.

"Come on, have another!" Nobara slurred, trying to coax Megumi, who declined with a courteous shake of his head.

"You're no fun!" she scowled, eyeing you with your water glass. "Both of you!"

"Somebody's got to keep an eye on you, especially when you're this plastered," you responded, a hint of dutifulness in your tone, considering the lively bonfire nearby.

She took an additional gulp from her glass, mumbling to herself, "You two act like an old married couple."

The comment threw you for a loop. Were you two actually that close? The idea stuck with you, even as Yuji jumped in, your unease evidently clear. "Why don't you two go out on a date?" he blurted, suddenly turning your relationship into the new subject of discussion.

Megumi, picking up on your discomfort, stepped in. "Stop spouting nonsense. Have some water," he voiced, a twinge of irritation lacing his words.

Megumi shifted towards you, a comforting expression in his eyes. "Ignore them," he suggested, and you managed a fragile smile in thanks. He tried to steer the conversation elsewhere, but before he could, Maki wandered over, delivering news that thrust your heart into a fleeting panic.

"Did you hear that Gojo's back in town?" Maki tossed the words into the space between you, and they hung there, pulling a tangible tension down around the group.

What?

"He's back? How do you know?" Megumi asked. Maki simply shrugged, her face hinting at the confidential nature of the information. "Guess it's supposed to be a secret."

"A secret?" Yuji jumped in, his expression one of outright disbelief. "Why would his return be under wraps?" Nobara piped up with her own musings. "It's not like he's ever been one to keep things low-key."

Maki responded with a flicker of irritation. "Don't ask me, hat's just what I've heard," she retorted before making herself comfortable with the group.

A whirlwind of thoughts began to spiral in your mind. Satoru was back? For how long? Why hadn't he made his way back to school? Where in the world had he been? Anxiety flowed through your veins, your throat constricting and fingers chilling in response.

"I need to—uh, grab a drink," you mumbled, desperate for an excuse to have a minute alone to gather your thoughts, justifying your abrupt leaving. Maki released a weary sigh, and given the inebriated state of the rest, they probably didn't fully grasp your sudden shift, so you swiftly made your exit from the group.

"I'll check on her," Megumi stated, his concern readily apparent. Maki showed a practiced nonchalance as Megumi rose and trailed after you.

Distancing yourself from the bonfire's warmth, you sought seclusion away from the prying eyes and merry sounds of the gathering. Your pace quickened, almost to a fledgling run, as though trying to escape something invisible yet pervasive.

Megumi managed to catch up with you, his sturdy grip encircling your wrist gently. "Are you all right?" As you turned towards him, you couldn't quite mask the frightened look etched into your features.

"What wrong?"

"I just need some fresh air," your voice betrayed you, fluttering unsteadily. Megumi's gaze, unyielding and firm, penetrated your facade. "Don't give me that crap," he responded with unwavering firmness. "I know something went down with Gojo."

Your heartbeat staggered, skipping its rhythmic pace momentarily. He knew? But to what extent? Panic began swelling within your chest. "No, all's good," you stammered, your voice fluttering like a lone leaf caught in a tempest.

Megumi's eyes softened, his breath escaping in a sharp exhale. "You want to see him?" His words, a gentle whisper, hovered in the chilly air between you.

"See him?" Confusion replaced your fear. The possibility hadn't even occurred to you, and you wondered what Megumi was alluding to.

"I knew he was back since yesterday. I didn't tell you because I had no idea what was going on."

Your eyes lingered on him, unable to process the flood of thoughts and feelings this revelation had unleashed. It had been an eternity since you'd laid eyes on Satoru, since his voice had caressed your ears, or you'd shared words with him. The mere inkling of his return rendered you motionless.

"You don't need to spell it out. It's not my place," Megumi continued, infusing empathy into his voice. "I'll slide you his address. You navigate from there."

With a swift glance at his phone, Megumi dispatched a message to you, delivering the address.

"Why are you doing this for me?"

"You're my friend," he declared briefly, his gaze steadfast, anchoring into your eyes. "You matter to me."

Megumi.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

You took a heartbeat to contemplate, then gently shook your head. "No, I'll be fine," you affirmed. Megumi responded with a supportive grin. "But I'll give him hell if he hurt you again," he appended, a speck of protective fervor dancing in his tone. It was enough to coax a small, genuine chuckle from you, "Thank you."

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

The rain was relentless, pouring down like a deluge. The campfire must have gone out long ago, you thought as you followed the route through the downpour on your smartphone. Strands of wet hair clung to your face despite your best efforts to brush them away. You barely noticed the cold rain, your mind focused on one thing—Satoru Gojo.

Finally, you arrived at a massive building in the heart of Tokyo. You entered the large lobby of the new building and searched for Satoru's name in the elevator directory. "At the top, then," you muttered to yourself. It struck you that Satoru must have had considerable wealth to afford an apartment in such a prime location, let alone the penthouse.

The lift ride to the top took only a few seconds, but it felt like an agonising eternity. Doubts and fears swirled inside you. Was he even there? What if he didn't want to see you? But now it was too late—the lift doors slid open and at the end of the corridor you saw his nameplate on the wall. With every ounce of courage you could muster, you pressed the doorbell and brushed the wet strands of hair from your face. Moments later, the door swung open, revealing the person you had both longed for and tried to forget.

"Why are you all wet?" the white-haired man asked.

"It's raining," you replied curtly, water droplets glistening on your clothes. Satoru stepped aside and let you in.

"Didn't bring an umbrella?" his question was coupled with a playful smirk as he lobbed a towel in your direction. You caught it, the soft fabric a comforting presence in your hands.

"As if that's what you want to know right now," you countered, emotions churning violently within, far more overwhelming than the rain that had soaked you to the bone.

Standing in the middle of the living room, you could hardly believe the breathtaking view that stretched before you. The massive glass walls offered a panoramic view of more than half of Tokyo. It felt like the perfect place for tourists to view the city from above, although you couldn't begin to imagine the astronomical rent for such an apartment.

Satoru walked around the sofa and sat down, his casual posture a sharp contrast to the tense atmosphere enveloping the room. Lost in the mesmerizing scenery beyond the window, you hadn't noticed that you had been silent for a while. It was he who disrupted it, his voice laced with a teasingly sarcastic undertone. "It's quite inappropriate for a student to bother his teacher in private at home."

"Bother?" You swiveled towards him, an amused twinkle flickering in your gaze. "Certainly. You appear immensely busy, lounging in your sweatpants with chips on your table," you retorted, a playful smirk playing on your lips.

"Unbelievably busy," Satoru shot back, his voice steeped in irony as he leisurely strolled to join you by the window. "In fact, I have been busy avoiding you." The room sank back into an imposing silence, its weight suffocating within the dimly illuminated space.

"Where have you been?" Your inquiry cut through the stillness.

"Were you not planning to take your anger out on me?" Satoru responded, sidestepping your question with ease.

"I am."

Satoru lingered just a step behind you, hands casually tucked into his sweatpants, eyes gazing over the rain-soaked vastness of Tokyo beyond the window. His sheer proximity seemed to suffocate, pressing an invisible weight against your chest.

"I'm so damn angry at you," your admission hung vulnerably in the space between you, your thoughts racing. "And I'm terrified of getting hurt even more."

"Why are you here, then?" His voice was a bare whisper, coarse and soft.

"You know exactly why I'm here," your tone, wavering between resolve and vulnerability, filled the room, "—you've always been able to read me like a book, remember?"

"I know," Satoru replied, and silence enveloped the room once more. It was a kind of silence that, curiously, didn't breed discomfort. Rather, it served as a relief from the bottled up pain you both held, a momentary escape from the heartache of the past, even though confronting it was inevitable.

His eyes anchored themselves on you. Meanwhile, your eyes lingered on the sprawling city below, watching as rain painted everything with a glossy sheen. You broke the silence first, "I've missed you," each word cut your throat like blades.

"I did the same as you," Satoru finally broke the silence. "—find someone else." His words lingered, offering an unwanted reality for you to digest.

"And how'd that play out for you?"

"Well, here I am, ain't I?" Satoru's retort was playful yet drenched in self-mockery as he took another step towards you, his form casting a looming shadow over you, his breath whispering across your shoulder.

"I realized, after cycling through all those faces, it was your damn face I was searchin' for in every one of them," he confessed, his voice low, burdened with a self-loathing that gripped his words. Exhaling a deep sigh, he ran his fingers through his hair, agitation palpable in his every move. "How messed up is that—"

"Why did it have to end like this?" you wondered aloud, more to yourself, to him, or to the universe, demanding no specific answer.

"Why?" His gaze drifted. "Suppose I'm just a damn coward."

"You're right," your agreement was blunt, unsparing. "So, you're you done with that?"

"Done with what?" Satoru's asked, fingers gently trailing down the side of your neck, causing a cascade of shivers down your spine. In that electrified stillness, the warmth of Satoru's breath against your skin sending a rush of conflicting emotions through you. The proximate intimacy—all too much yet not enough at the same time.

"—done running away,'" you said firmly, turning to face him. His ice-blue eyes locked with yours, burrowing into you with a force that seemed poised to shatter your very core. It had been so long since you had been this close to him, yet it felt instantly right, as if you had never really been apart.

"This is gonna get us into a lot of trouble," he whispered, a solitary finger delicately tracing the contour of your lower lip.

"Don't care," you said, the yearning for that long-overdue kiss evident in your eyes.

"We might catch hell at school for this," he warned, his tone half teasing, half serious, as if trying to persuade you to reconsider your actions. But having walked half of Tokyo under a weeping sky, retreat was not an option. Your heart ached for the kiss you'd craved, the flavor of his lips that had lingered in your dreams.

"I couldn't care less," you breathed out, the sound of your voice almost lost beneath the thunderous beating of your own heart. Satoru's gaze locked with yours, a magnetic pull that left your breath hitching in your chest. His lips, tantalizingly close to yours, promised the allure of a kiss forbidden. Every ounce of reason told you to pull back, to resist the gravitating force between you and Satoru Gojo, yet resistance was futile.

"So, say it," his voice, a commanding whisper. He needed your confirmation, your expressed desire as the only thing capable of holding him back from giving into the longing. He needed to hear you voice your want for him.

"I've wanted you, Satoru—," you breathed, your whisper brushing his lips, "—since the first moment I saw you."

Satoru grinned as he leaned forward, his eyes locked with yours. "What are you doing to me?" he whispered, his voice barely more than a heated murmur before his lips crushed against yours, a teasing promise of what was to come. You felt your heart racing, your body responding to his closeness, the intensity of his gaze. The world seemed to disappear around you, leaving only the two of you in this charged moment.

Satoru's kiss was desperate, a clash of lips and tongues that spoke of a hunger that had been denied for too long. It was a release of all the pent-up feelings that had simmered between you, a passionate declaration of desire mixed with a deep affection that could no longer be ignored.

Satoru's strong fingers closed around your neck, the touch both commanding and intimate, sending a shiver down your spine. With his other hand, he pressed your hip firmly against him, his desire evident in the way his body pressed against yours.

You struggled to catch your breath, the intensity of his kisses leaving you breathless and yearning for more. But in that moment, you found a strange and exhilarating solace in the overwhelming passion that had enveloped you. If this was how it was going to end, if you were going to suffocate in his kisses, it would be a beautiful, evil death, you thought. His lips devoured yours, and as you gasped for breath between heated kisses, you realised that surrendering to this powerful attraction was inevitable.

"You have no idea how long I've waited for this," he confessed, his voice a deep, sensual murmur that sent tingles running along your spine.

Satoru's words hung in the air, heavy with anticipation as he gasped, his breath warm against your ear. His dark eyes bored into yours, a storm of desire and longing swirling within them. The tension in the room crackled with an electric energy and you could feel the magnetic pull between you and Satoru, a force neither of you could resist.

He turned you gently, his fingers grazing your skin like a whisper, and pressed you firmly against the cold windowpane. The cityscape outside seemed to blur as your heart raced in response to the sudden intensity of his touch. Satoru's hands moved from the window to your waist, his touch setting your skin on fire as he pulled you closer, his body pressed against yours, moulding to your contours.

Satoru's touch was both insistent and gentle as he used a firm grip on your hair to tilt your head back, exposing the vulnerable curve of your neck to his relentless kisses. Your breath caught and a sensual moan escaped your parted lips as the soft, heated caress of his mouth traced a trail of fire across your sensitive skin. Your body responded instinctively, seeking his warmth and closeness, pressing against him.

As his lips worked their magic on your neck, you felt a fierce desire build between you, a pull that defied all reason. His hands moved, fingers intertwining with yours, still pressed tightly against the cool window. The contrast between the cold glass and the searing heat of his touch only added to the intensity of the moment.

His body pressed against yours and you could feel the undeniable evidence of his desire, an exciting bulge rubbing against you, sending waves of desire through your body.

Every touch, every kiss, every movement heightened the tension between you and Satoru, a palpable electricity sizzling in the air. The forbidden allure of the moment was intoxicating and you found yourself completely lost in the whirlwind of passion that had swept you both away, knowing that there was no turning back from the depths of desire that had been unleashed.

"Satoru," you moaned, your voice a breathless plea as he tightened his grip around your throat, a mixture of desire and surrender in your eyes. His fingers slid sensuously along your lips, igniting a simmering fire within you that threatened to consume your very being. The growing heat in your body seemed to tear you apart, your every nerve alive with desire. You craved more, yearned for it with an intensity that shook you to your core. For so long you had imagined what it would feel like to be kissed by him, but now that it was happening you couldn't get enough.

In a desperate burst of passion, you broke free of his grip and turned to face him. Despite your determination, he, a head taller and undeniably stronger, effortlessly pinned you back against the window once more. The cool glass pressed against your overheated skin as he pulled you into another rough, consuming kiss, leaving you no room to assert control.

Your fingers instinctively clawed at his shirt, feeling the taut muscles beneath the thin fabric as you gasped for air, the world outside the window a distant blur as your senses were drowned in a whirlwind of sensations and emotions. The fierce urgency of your encounter heightened the tension between you and Satoru, making every stolen moment together an electrifying, unforgettable experience.

His gaze bored into your soul, searching for any hint of surrender, while your heart raced in response to his closeness. You knew that surrendering to him meant losing yourself in the whirlwind of passion that seemed to follow him like a magnetic force, but you were determined not to let go of the reins just yet.

With a gentle but firm push, you held him at arm's length, your hand pressed firmly against his chest. He stared at you, his eyes filled with a mischievous gleam that made your knees tremble. Gojo Satoru was a master at this game of desire and he knew exactly how to keep you on edge.

"Afraid?" he hissed, his voice a seductive melody that sent shivers down your spine. His fingers danced slowly down your arm, teasing your skin as they went. "Or are you just testing how much control you have over me?"

You swallowed hard, trying to regain your composure as he peeled off his shirt with unhurried grace, revealing a chiseled chest that was a masterpiece of temptation.

The tension between you and Satoru escalated as you approached him. "Afraid of you?" you whispered. With a subtle yet bold move, you pushed him backwards, causing him to stumble and fall onto the sofa behind him. "—afraid that you might enjoy it too much to resist," he huffed.

The seconds felt like hours as you held your ground, resisting the magnetic pull that was Gojo Satoru. His grin only deepened, his eyes sparkling with a playful challenge. You couldn't help but admire the confidence he exuded, even as your own resolve wavered.

"Are you?" you hissed, sitting down on his lap. His surprise at your assertiveness only increased the tension between you, but he didn't utter a word of protest, allowing you to straddle his desire-fuelled anticipation.

"God, you're going to be the death of me," Satoru moaned, his breath hitching with every languid up and down movement you made. Satoru surrendered to the overwhelming pleasure, his head falling back as he closed his eyes, savouring every moment of your tantalising touch. His strong hands traced the contours of your body, stoking the fire between you, and soft, uncontrollable moans slipped past his parted lips as you pressed harder against him.

Satoru's gaze met yours, his eyes smoldering with desire as you moved your hips teasingly around his eager shaft.

"I can't hold back any longer," he moaned, his voice filled with longing. "Let me fuck you already."

In response to his passionate plea, you silenced him with a deep, soulful kiss, and that was all the permission he needed. Satoru's hands found your waist and with a swift, intense motion he flipped you onto your back, his powerful presence now towering over you, ready to consume the fierce desire that had built up between you.

Your wrists were locked firmly in his grip, held securely above your head as he pressed your chest against his. His skilled fingers wasted no time in finding their way to your trousers. With a single, purposeful motion, he unfastened them and slid them down, exposing the smoldering passion that had been hidden beneath.

Sator's desire surged with each passing moment, his excitement intensifying as he meticulously, almost agonisingly, traced circles with his skilled fingers over the damp fabric of your underwear. His breath caught at the sight of your outrageous pleasure, his eyes growing increasingly intense.

"I want you so badly," Satoru whispered huskily, his lips trailing along your body, heading south. "Satoru, please," you begged, your voice shaking with frustration. The air was thick with anticipation and you couldn't stand the relentless tension any longer.

But he remained maddeningly patient, his eyes locked with yours, an enigmatic smile playing on his lips. His fingers trailed along the edge of your underwear, tugging teasingly at the fabric before finally relenting and pulling it aside. Your breath caught in your throat as he leaned closer, his hot breath sending shivers through your body.

"Not yet," he murmured, his voice a seductive promise before his lips fell on your throbbing core. A gasp escaped your lips as his tongue met your most sensitive spot and a moan followed as he began a slow, painful exploration.

The sensations were exquisite, his tongue moving languidly, each flick sending waves of pleasure through you. The world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you locked in a passionate dance. He began agonisingly slowly, tracing delicate patterns with his tongue that made you arch your back in sweet torment.

As the intensity increased, so did the urgency in your moans. His pace quickened, his movements more fervent, matching the wild rhythm of your own desire. You writhed beneath him, lost in the electrifying connection, your pleas for release growing more desperate as you stood on the brink of an explosive climax.

Satoru's gaze remained fixed on you, his dark eyes burning with desire as he continued to tease you relentlessly, just as eager to drive you to the brink of release.

With every passionate moan that escaped your lips, he couldn't resist any longer. He decided he wanted to be the one to push you over the edge. Two fingers slid inside you, one after the other, causing you to gasp sharply. Your tight, wet heat clenched around his penetrating digits and he couldn't help but moan at the sensation.

"You're so hot," he whispered huskily, his fingers expertly exploring the depths of your desire. He knew exactly where to touch, where to press and how to drive you wild.

His tongue continued its tantalising dance around your swollen clit, his warm breath fanning over your sensitive flesh. The combined assault of his mouth and fingers sent waves of pleasure through your body, building your arousal to a fever pitch. As he slid his fingers along the intimate contours inside you, he zeroed in on that sweet spot that made you arch your back and cry out his name.

"Not yet," he whispered, his breath hot against your clit, sending a shiver down your spine. His lips brushed lightly across your skin as he moved up to you again. Your senses were on fire with desire, your body aching for him.

He reached for something on the coffee table, his movements confident and purposeful. With a quick motion he pulled down his sweatpants, revealing the loose boxers that barely hid his growing erection. The sight of him, so close yet teasingly out of reach, sent a surge of desire through you.

You wanted him with a desperation you didn't know was possible. The circumstances were complicated, teacher and student, a forbidden union that promised trouble. But in this moment, none of that mattered. You were lost in the intensity of your desire, unable to resist the magnetic pull between you.

As your thoughts swirled with the forbidden nature of your liaison, you failed to notice that Satoru had already wrapped himself in a condom and was now positioned at your entrance.

"We can stop anytime," he panted, his voice thick with desire, his dark eyes locked on yours. It was a feeble offer, given the point of no return you'd already reached, but you chose not to respond with words. Instead, you pulled him closer, your lips meeting in a fervent, hungry kiss. It was a passionate affirmation, your answer to his unspoken question.

Satoru seemed to enjoy your reaction and without further hesitation he thrust into you with an urgency that left you gasping for breath. His entry was swift and unyielding, and there was no time to get used to his size. You moaned his name as he pulled you tightly against him, the sensation of his body merging with yours overwhelming your senses.

The intimacy of the moment enveloped you both as he held you in his arms, his thrusts driven by a hunger that had been building for what seemed like an eternity. His moans mingled with yours, a symphony of desire that filled the room as he thrust deeper and harder, as if he'd been longing for this moment for years.

Satoru's snow-white hair cascaded around his face, obscuring his eyes as he continued his relentless rhythm. His forehead pressed gently against yours, and his fingers intertwined with yours as he quickened his pace. You couldn't help but wrap yourself around him, the pleasure overwhelming you as you arched your back off the sofa.

"God," Satoru's desperate moans filled the air, his voice a fervent plea as he plunged deeper into you. His lips sought comfort against your neck, a primal instinct to muffle his own cries of pleasure.

As the heat between you and Satoru increased, you could feel how close you were— and how close he was. He could feel it too, grabbing your jaw with one hand and forcing you to look up at him. To look at him as you came around him. And so did he. You could feel him pouring his load into you, feel the tension release from both of you and fuck did it feel good.

Satoru let go of your jaw and exhaled heavily, "Fuck," he breathed out before his lips curved into a cocky grin. He backed away from you and slowly pulled his length out of you.

He looked at you with those piercing, stormy eyes, a mischievous gleam hidden in their depths. His chest rose and fell with each heavy breath, a testament to the forbidden passion that had ignited between you. A mischievous smile played on his lips as he whispered, his voice laced with danger, "You're really getting me into trouble."

You struggled to catch your breath, your heart pounding in your chest as you tried to organise the chaotic whirlwind of emotions swirling around you. Yes, he was your teacher, and while the consequences of this illicit rendezvous loomed in the back of your mind, you couldn't deny the overwhelming pull that drew you closer.

In the hazy aftermath, you found yourself staring at him through heavy-lidded eyes, his piercing, icy blue gaze locked with yours. "As if you're going to follow rules," you teased, your voice barely above a whisper as you tried to regain your composure.

Satoru couldn't help but chuckle, a deep, seductive sound. "You're right about that," he admitted, his voice laced with a dangerous edge that sent a thrill through you. His hand reached out to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, his fingers tracing a tantalising path along your skin. You knew you were playing with fire, but at that moment you couldn't bring yourself to care.

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

You awoke in the middle of the night, your heart still racing. The room was shrouded in shadows, but your senses were sharply aware of the man lying beside you in bed—Satoru Gojo. With the utmost caution, you slipped from under the sheets, your every movement seemingly unnoticed by his tranquil form. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting a faint glow on his chiseled features. Satoru appeared to be in a deep sleep as you made your way to the kitchen.

You grabbed a glass and filled it with water, thinking about how you'd ended up here. The living room, still in disarray from your heady night, served as a reminder of what had happened just hours before. You hadn't bothered to tidy up—it was as if you'd left a trail of your intimacy for everyone to see. Your smartphone interrupted your thoughts, the screen flashed with a message from Megumi.

"Everything okay? You with Gojo?"

A tender smile played on your lips as you replied, "I'm fine. I'm with Satoru."

His reply came swift, "I'm glad you're safe," warming a little corner of your heart with its sincerity.

Megumi, with his soft and ever-supportive nature, was like a comfy pillow that was always there. Even though he might've not been the biggest fanof your whole situation with Satoru, he stuck around, always keeping an eye out for you.

You tiptoed back into the bedroom, chilly nighttime breezes whispering in through the open window. Satoru didn't stir, lost deep in his dreams. The thing between you and Gojo Satoru was like this wild, magnetic pull, ticking and tocking, drawing you in closer, second by second.

However, underneath the gentle glow of the moon, spilling into the quiet room, you wondered: just how much more wild and heady could this secret thing between you two get? Thoughts about what's next cast long shadows across your mind, but you shushed them for now. Tomorrow might be a day for doubts and facing the consequences, but tonight, tonight was all yours.

next chapter ->

#gojo saturo #saturo gojo x reader #gojo x y/n #gojo x you #jujutsu kaisen #gojo x female reader #jjk x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo smut #gojo x reader #megumi fushiguro x you #megumi fushiguro #megumi x reader #megumi x you

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thesassypadawan · 25 days

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Submit (Burnt Darth Vader x FemPetReader)

Summary: Never. You will never submit to your new master, your lord. At least that’s what you thought. After hours of torture and some persuasive thoughts, you begin to see things in a different light. Perhaps submitting isn’t all that bad. (Somewhat origin story of Pet Reader.)

Warnings: 18+ (minors dni), because all the lovely smut. Choking, Dom Daddy Darth, Somewhat Subby Pet…and Vader’s big hands.

Notes: Happy Hayden's (And Mine) Birthday Event! In honor of the man, the myth, the legend; I will be posting nothing but Anakin, Vader, and Hay stories all April long!

- “Submit to me…become my perfect pet.”

- “Never!” Feet scrabble for purchase as you rise off the floor. Hands snapping to your neck, desperately clawing at an invisible hand.

- Your new master, your lord strolls towards you. Clad all in black, his face hidden by a full mask. His rhythmic breathing pounding in your ears, along with the sound of your frantically beating heart. “Foolish little girl; you are in no position to defy me.”

- You should be horrified, absolutely terrified of him…this nightmare of a man. Yet your nipples pebble beneath your clothes and a dampness begins to grow between your legs. Body completely betraying you, despite your current predicament.

- “I can easily make or break you,” he spoke coldly, amber lenses staring emotionlessly into your eyes. “Give you unimaginable pleasure or pain.”

- Images and thoughts swirl around your brain, ones that you surely know that cannot be yours…

- A large hand wraps around your throat, squeezing just hard enough to take your breath away. All the while he, ‘your lord’, rails you from behind. Splitting you open, stretching you so achingly good. His cool leather fingers tweaking at your nipples, before dipping into your folds. Pinching and rolling your clit. Until it all becomes too much, and he somehow whispers into your ear the simple order to… “Cum.”

- Snapping back to reality, you find yourself on the ground. Gasping, wheezing; greedily inhaling as much air as you possibly can. Mind confused, vision blurry. The feeling as if you were drowning overwhelming your senses. A soreness and emptiness between your legs

- His voice rang out across the bed chamber, low and even. “Your thoughts were very loud. Very…interesting.”

- Slowly you regain control, head tilting slightly upwards. Eyes struggling to focus as you try to steady and center yourself. “W-What do you mean by interesting?”

- Taking another step forward, he lets out a mechanical chuckle. “It would seem that you do desire to belong to me. That you wish for me to use and abuse you however I see fit. That you will more than happily take everything that is given to you.”

- Reaching you, Vader squats down closer to your level. Gloved hand gripping your chin, surprisingly gently. Thumb swiping across your bottom lip, the texture sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. “Open.”

- Perhaps it was oxygen deprivation or the hours of torture you had already sustained. Nonetheless you still willingly obey, allowing him to slip his digit inside your mouth. Whimpering as you suck lightly, savoring the smokey taste on your tongue.

- Pulling away, eliciting a small whine from you. He stands back up; towering over you in his full, menacing glory. Hand held out to you, the black leather still shining with your saliva. “I can give you what your body so craves. What it truly yearns. All you have to do is…submit to me.”

- Swallowing hard, you bit your lip. You realize how desperate you are for more of his touch…to feel totally helpless…to be completely controlled. The answer is clear, and you slip your hand into his. “Yes, my lord; I will.”

- Tugging you effortlessly to your feet, you stumble forward into him. Smaller body presses against his larger one firmly. His hand begins to wrap around your neck, and you can’t help but moan softly.

- “Such a perfect little pet.”

Tag List: @espinathena-17, @myheartwillgoon2022, @wifeofasith

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gamerwoman3d · 4 months

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Please Be Bi-Han 🙏

🔞 An MK1 x Reader 🔞

You aren't supposed to be in this timeline.

And to you, this timeline shouldn't exist. But it does. And this timeline is particularly exploitable, given the things you know which no one else in this timeline does. You slip into the timeline and abuse your knowledge to unethically gain just enough wealth to live very, very comfortably. And you laugh because this timeline is literally just a game to you. Admittedly, you came here to try to seduce the hotties. But when you figured out just how easy it would be to game the financial system here, you did that.

Imagine not being shocked at all to see Liu Kang at your doorstep with his Lin Kuei goons. You could laugh. You know him. You know all three, no, all four of them; your attraction to them is what initially drew you to this timeline. The fourth you knew by smell alone; the campfire scent in the air proved that Smoke was with them, somewhere ready for action yet invisible to your eyes.

Imagine closing the door to your beautiful private mansion in their face before any of them even speak. Imagine bolting it, locking it, chaining it, only to tell them through the speaker, "Whoever breaks this door down and finds me first gets laid."

🔞 Spicy/Explicit after the cut 🔞

Now you, you have installed several small panic rooms throughout your mansion with which to play hide and seek. So you go do that, smirking to yourself as you watch the group through the security cam app on your phone. But back up a moment to just before these guys arrived.

Liu Kang smirked as he collected his warriors at the edge of a portal that would lead conveniently into a hidden driveway outside the privacy walls near your garden.

"I have a fun little mission for us today. Geras discovered someone manipulating the financial trajectory of our timeline that isn't supposed to be here. We need to go get them, and convince them to stop, without violence."

"Respectfully, Lord Liu Kang - If you don't need violence, why did you call us? If we can't stab it, it's most likely someone else's problem," Smoke said out of turn.

"There are other methods of coercion, Smoke. And if Geras' revelations for this mission are proven true, then methods of seduction are on the table," Liu Kang responded flatly.

Liu Kang wanted to laugh. The synchronized single-eyebrow raise of the three masked ninjas before him was too cartoonish to seem real.

Fast forward.

You get a good run, scrambling to your hiding place.

"I thought this might be the case," you hear Liu Kang say in your earbud, from audio played through the phone collected from the front door security recorder.

"Seduction really is the game this evening," Scorpion said, "even with you saying as much, I am still surprised."

"Are we making a competition of it? Or am I the only one that will be chasing after that cutie?" said Smoke from seemingly nowhere.

"Don't blow your cover, brother. We're not sure if we're being recorded. It could give us an advantage if you'd keep quiet," Sub-Zero said.

"It's a competition," Scorpion interjected before slamming his boot into the door, rattling it in it's frame.

A few kicks, body slams did nothing. Sub-Zero guided the others out of the way, froze the door handle in it's place, then pulled the mechanism - deadbolts and all - through the crystallized steel. He tossed it to the side and booted open the door, which swung freely and hit the interior wall with such force that one might have expected the crash to come from a vehicle accident.

You bounce in your place, trying not to giggle as you watch the men through your tablet. You had hoped Bi-Han would breech the door first, but now the men crept inside and began to hunt for you. You saw all except Smoke, just before the power went down, taking your security feed with it.

You were in the dark, now, lit only by the glow of a tablet that showed the wifi disconnected. You swiftly realized that Smoke must have gone to cut the power - and had the foresight to cut the backup power first.

Smart of him, you thought. But now, in the dark, there was nothing left to do but wait for one of them to discover your hiding spot. Every little noise you heard made your heart jump in anticipation of being caught.

"Please be Bi-Han, please be Bi-Han," you chanted in a whisper under your breath.

FOR PART TWO - LINKS BELOW POLL

...

And now I'll be a bit evil.

ADVENTURE TIME. C'MON GRAB -

Part 2a(i): Sub-Zero discovers F! Reader

Part 3a(i): Sub-Zero toys with F! Reader (to be read after part 2a(i)

Part 2b(i): Smoke discovers F! Reader

Part 2b(ii): Smoke discovers M! Reader

Part 3b(i): Smoke fucks F! Reader (to be read after part 2b(i)

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sprout-fics · 7 months

Text

Engravings (Chapter Two)

(Makarov x F! Reader)

Engravings Masterlist

Word Count: 4.8k Rating: Mature Tags: Brainwashing, Emotional Manipulation, Kidnapping, False Romance, Angst, Hurt/No Comfort, Injury/Blood, Whump, Stockholm Syndrome, Winter Soldier AU, No Fluff, Psychological Abuse, Physical Abuse by Proxy, Mind Games, Eventual Happy Ending Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Mind the tags (Read on Ao3)

You dream of them.

They surround you, and the TV drones on in the background. Your legs are propped on someone’s lap, one of them sprawls on the floor in front of you. You itch your fingers through his mohawk, listen to his huff as his hand closes atop yours. A smile graces your features, and a smoky, raspy voice murmurs something to a figure standing behind the couch, arms crossed, swaddled in a dark hoodie. His face is hidden by a balaclava, but his eyes are soft when they rest on you. Trusting.

You reach for him. He evaporates into smoke along with the rest of them.

When you wake, your entire body hurts. It’s dim, dark, and you can still smell your own blood that has stopped oozing from your shoulder. A flickering fluorescent lamp glows above you, blinking too bright against the back of your eyelids. You’ve been stripped on your gear, mercifully covered by a blanket that keeps the thin, frigid air at bay. A bunker, you guess, and by the Russian signs on the walls it’s one of your own. There’s voices from the other room, speaking in grim, low tones you can hardly hear.

It takes effort to rise, bones creaking in sharp protest. The blanket drapes across your form, legs unsteady. You wobble towards the voices of your comrades, unsure what exactly you’re looking for. Yet as you amble down the hall on bare feet, the lamp light of a desk catches your eyes, and with it- a series of photographs.

You shouldn’t be curious. You know better than that by now. Quiet, complacent, don’t ask questions. Poised, perfect, savage and silent. Yet like an invisible tether you’re drawn inwards, a moth to flame. There’s pictures, photographs taken from afar, grainy and vague. Yet the figures in the photos are familiar, and as your fingers graze over them something sparks inside the hollow of your chest. A distant flame, and for the first time you feel warm.

“Ghost.” You whisper, scarcely audible as you take in the skull mask that stared across from you on the rooftop, had faltered when he found you in his sights. Gaz, who had tried to stop you atop the bridge, eyes full of despair. Soap, who had so long ago slung his arms across your shoulders and infected you with his laughter. Price, who had cornered you in Prague, had whispered the words that had taken root and blossomed into a grotesque doubt that has haunted you ever since.

“What did he do to you?”

It starts off as a distant sense of falling, the air around you strangely serene, silent. Light blossoms inside the hollow of your chest like an unfurling explosion, and as you gaze at the dazzling brightness of it you almost forget to brace for the shock wave that sends the world around you into lawless chaos. With it returns the howl of their voices- of Gaz’s cry, his hands stretching for you as you careen off the bridge, trying to rescue you from the dark waters, the inescapable tide of violence you noticed too late. It closes over your head, pulling you downwards into the darkness of his embrace.

Makarov.

You stumble from the room, chest too tight, gasping for air. The truth unfurls with sickening reality inside you, memories colliding in a horrible realization of the truth.

The plane being shot down. Jumping into the sky, your parachute unfurling, only to collapse when burning debris shot through the fabric. Hearing your team scream as you rocketed downwards, panicking, reaching for your second chute, seeing the ground race upward as you spun downwards-

“What is your name?”

“I don’t know.”

Your stomach empties itself before you can stop yourself, and the noise makes the murmurs in the other room go quiet. You tremble, clutching the wall, and your mind screams of enemies. Danger. Your body aches with a fierce pain, unable to contain the stress, heart too loud, too fast-

A figure out of the corner of your eye, one of Makarov’s men. A man you once called a comrade. You reel away from him, confused, frightened, and the motion sends your head spinning, the world dizzy in dim color.

You’re unconscious before you hit the ground.

---

They bring you back to him, his prize turned puppet. You awaken in his lap, eyes opening to his, and there’s something in your hindbrain that purrs at the mere sight of him, ready to open yourself to him, do all he asks of you and more. His dark eyes churn like storm clouds, and you force yourself not to stiffen, to show fear, to give the barest indication that you know.

“Sleep well, beautiful?” He breathes, and the smile you give him feels too real, pulling at a tepid heartstring you wish you didn’t have.

“You saved me again.” You murmur softly instead, raise a bandaged hand to caress his face. The glimmer of darkness in his eyes relaxes into something mildly resembling serenity. “Makarov.”

It’s breathed with a sigh, a confession you will now never speak. He accepts it like an offering unto his altar, leans down to kiss you. You part your lips, slot his mouth against yours, drink in the taste of him, the faint scent of vodka that clouds your fragile judgment. He moans the name he’s given you, gathers you into his arms, nips at the growing bruises on your skin and whispers devotions there. Each word is tender, beloved, as if he’s realized he nearly lost you, that he can never let you go.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers into your jaw. “I should have never made you go.”

It’s said with a desperate rasp, his hands gripping you closer. It softens you at the edges, the adoration you hold for this man, this murderer, a creature of violence born in darkness. He holds you to him like something precious, something to be cherished. Uncertainty of a different kind blooms inside your ribs like a macabre bouquet.

He took you. Stole you away but saved your life. He could have killed you a thousand times over but he hasn’t. Even after this, even after failing him, nearly dying without his permission, he embraces you like a lover. Beloved. Only his. He’s engraved himself into your bones, carved a place for himself that even now you can’t deny. You wonder if it’s all true. The lynx painting watches you from over his shoulder, a predatory stare. You wonder if his eyes are the same.

You wonder why you still love him despite it all.

You’re battered, bruised from your near-death experience. It takes weeks for you to recover, for your bones to mend, your cuts to heal, the bullet wound in your shoulder to close, the ringing in your ears to stop. Time does not heal the broken pieces of you shattered by the truth.

It itches under your skin, the waiting. There’s a trained reflex inside you to be moving, active, useful in the way weapons are. Your purpose is to serve him. Without purpose you’re nothing but a broken, empty thing. The bred urge inside you strains to yield to Makarov’s hands, to throw yourself into the path of danger for him, to treat his orders like divine prophecy.

It scares you.

The worst part of waiting is not the patience it takes for your body to recover, but the emptiness. Makarov has left you in his absence, but not alone. There’s a guard outside your safehouse at all times. Makarov says it’s for your safety. The guard doesn’t speak, barely looks at you. Yet you feel his eyes when your back is turned, and you know you’re being watched.

It’s a dangerous game you play, pretending nothing has changed. Your routine goes unaltered from before. You rise early, eat, tend to your wounds, exercise, occupy yourself silently, obediently, a mere object waiting for his return. His polished prize, his beautiful, gleaming dagger, sitting in a glass display until he’s ready to use you again. The guard watches you with a cold stare, sees you silently retire for the evening where you curl into yourself with wide eyes, trying to understand the chaos inside you, the way your world has evaporated into smoke overnight.

You aren’t supposed to be here. Your true home lies a thousand miles away, and in your dreams the desperate, despairing eyes of Price and Gaz call to you, echoing the name you’d forgotten. Soap reaches for you, Ghost stares at you through his scope, rust colored gaze betraying his grieving shock. You belonged to them once, you think, before you were his.

Makarov loves you, something inside you whispers. He doubts you, doubts your loyalty, but you can’t erase the gentleness in his eyes, his soft touch as you lay on his bare chest, stroking your cheek with crooked knuckles. He wouldn’t kill you. You’re his. His weapon, his beloved, his marionette.

Yet the truth of it all lays bare against your skin. He stole you from them, took apart your fragile mind and rebuilt it to something better, something greater. He turned you into something you could never be before. Fearless of death, skilled beyond measure, overflowing with undying loyalty. You soak in the blood of his enemies and arrive back to sink to his feet, sigh into his palm as he cups your face and smears red against your skin. He’s turned you into a shell of yourself, hollow except for him. He places you in the path of danger with a kiss, collects you once you’ve been charred to ashes and whispers sweet praises until the time comes once more to repeat this cycle of violence once more. Each time he unsheathes the blade of you your body and mind fracture a little further. You know there will come a day where you do not come back to him, and you know the part of you that loves him will speak his name with your dying breath.

Just how far has he burrowed himself inside you, you wonder? Just how certain are you of his adoration for you, this man who will use you again and again until you’re broken, but will press you into his silk sheets with murmurs of adoration? Makarov is not a gentle man, and you know too that he will someday meet the same fate he predestines for you. He makes you earn his love because his morals will allow nothing less. If you are to stand beside him, two steps back, by his right shoulder, you must be more than just beautiful. Lethal, unquestioning, compliant. He hasn’t killed you yet despite his doubts, and you tell yourself it is because of his love for you.

Despite everything, you know you can’t stay.

Escape remains a distant possibility, a far-fetched fantasy. Guarded at all times, injured still as you are, there’s no way to flee. Neither is there a way to contact the men you’ve been robbed from, tell them you know now, tell them you’re in danger, plead to come home, confess to them that you think you are home. The silent weeks without him allow you to plan, and in that time you practice utter composure, face blank, refusing to reveal even an inch of doubt. The second you do, the second you express uncertainty, you become useless to him...

You tell yourself he’ll let you live. Perhaps he’ll lock you away like a fragile dove, keep you in a gilded cage until the fractures of your mind widen, crack your resolve until you once more fall into step behind him. He won’t kill you, not if he loves you.

Even so, your fate at his hands is a tragic one. Death or surrender. Neither one you can accept. So with each dawn you try and convince yourself you will never be safe here despite your tenderness for him, and you tell yourself even that is another falsehood woven into your skin.

You’re not completely healed by the time he calls on you again. It’s a test. He’s expecting you to protest, to say you aren’t ready, to show a glimpse of uncertainty. You swallow it down as he smiles, telling your guard to leave you both alone. You lean into his kiss and wonder why it feels so right.

There’s an instinct to yield to him automatically, to surrender. It’s easier, simpler, to resort to this life you’ve led at his hands. To struggle with the truth robs you of sleep, cracks at your composure. To fall into him feels like a gentle sigh, releasing the voice inside you screaming to be freed, to run.

You cling to him tighter, trying to memorize the shape of him so you’ll remember when you leave him. When you escape.

As you get dressed you limp, your leg not entirely healed. Makarov places you atop the edge of the bed, kneels at your feet to draw a sock up your calf. It’s intimate, tender, and the velvet softness of his eyes conceals the calculation in his stare. A horrible wrongness bubbles in your stomach at this foreign gesture, so delicate and careful even as you know he is once more hurling you in the path of danger. He’ll wait for you to return to gaze into the emptiness of your eyes that alight only when you’re with him.

It’s not an easy assignment. Your target is a CIA informant, and for once your mission is not to kill her. Capture, kidnapping, so you can bring her back like prey caught in your jaws. She’s not unlike you, you think. Your age, about your height. The same colored eyes. You wonder if it’s just a coincidence, or if somehow he has predestined this as well. A mind game, watching the vision of your own demise, recalling the memories of being stolen away into his blood soaked grasp. You want to scream, to warn her, to tell her to flee. You know it may come at the cost of your own life.

She struggles as your arm closes around her neck, hauling her backwards into the black, unmarked van. Her shout is muffled by the chloroform cloth across her face. As she grows limp in your grasp, as your driver speeds off into the night, you feel something inside you crack open further, and you pray to whatever god is listening that you will someday forgive yourself for this, for the act of pretending so you stay alive.

When the spy is dumped on the steps of the American embassy, you struggle to not weep.

In the deaths that follow, your soul slowly brittles into a gasping, fragile cry.

He’s testing you. Each new assignment forces you to choose between your morals and your life. You wonder if this is his method of breaking you, compressing you down into yourself so he can fill the cracks with his poisonous adoration. Breaking you in body and mind, hollowing you out so there’s only him, only ever him. You scream in the prison of your mind, the noise silent but deafening. You belong to him, your heart his, but the promise of freedom struggles to overwrite the gentle touches he engraves into your skin under the hazy blue light of his bedroom.

With each death, each assignment, every new mission the cracks widen. Hysteria threatens to force its way up your throat in a desperate wail, begging the stars he divines in a plea for mercy. They gaze down at you unblinking, and you know he has written your fate amidst the constellations.

You swallow down tears as he braces above you, sheets tangled around your forms. You kiss him and remember how it feels to love him, wondering why the grace of his love is so painful. He gathers you to him after, form bare, he watches your face with unblinking fixation until the dreams take you once more.

There’s a part of you that wants to go back to that time of ignorance, back when you clung to the smallest bit of affection he gave to you, the only reason for your existence. A simpler time, when you were his and only his, not haunted by the truth. If you could return to that time, when you had both stood in the December dawn, when he had pressed a kiss to your knuckles and then held your face in his hands with a tender smile. If you could go back, if you could forget, if you could die being his...

There’s no going back. Not anymore.

Escape eludes you. Each mission is amidst a team of others. You’re never alone except for the safehouses he keeps you in, caged until he once more has use for your fangs. The others watch you, and you struggle to mute the sound of your own rapid heartbeat lest they hear it. They study your blank expression for indications of uncertainty, disloyalty, and a whisper of potential betrayal. You dread what will happen when they eventually find it, if they’ll haul you back to him screaming and thrashing, the noose of your fate closing around your throat. You force the shake in your hands to still, force yourself to not mind the way blood catches under your fingernails.

Your opportunity comes suddenly.

Your handler, as you’ve begun to refer to them as- the ever-changing cast of soldiers under his command that monitor you, watches you carefully. You walk in step beside him, as he leads you through the winding streets of Minsk in a seemingly random pattern. He says you’re walking to rendezvous with a contact. You’re not sure if you believe him. He leads you to an open park and your skin itches, the site too open, prone to sniper fire. You try to shift your gaze without him noticing, sweeping the rooftops for the glint of a scope. You pause by a bench, and the man sits, gestures to you to do the same.

“Stay here.” The handler tells you in Russian, and then leaves you.

Alone.

You blink in astonishment, watching him vanish in the distance. The silence in his absence rings in your ears. You think perhaps this is it, your final, profound act of rebellion as you jump to your feet and flee. You wonder if a hidden sniper might shoot you down if you do. The hope that is supposed to spark to life inside you is smothered by a choking shroud of dread.

Something isn’t right.

Why give you the chance? With how his trust in you wavers? Why leave you alone knowing it gives you an opportunity to flee? No doubt you’re being watched even now, but perhaps you can outrun whoever it is that is observing you. Is this a test? One you’re designed to fail? Would he actually let you go? Without a goodbye?

It draws across your thoughts suddenly, like the flash of a distant explosion as the ground trembles under you ominously.

You’re being used as bait.

They’re expecting them to come for you. He had you paraded you through the streets in clear view, made a display of proof of life, and then left you like bait in a trap. He’s expecting one of your team to sneak up to you, to try and rescue you. He wants them to take you by the hand and pull you to safety, only for you to watch them cut down by sniper fire as their blood splatters across your immaculate wardrobe. He’s using you to execute them.

Your heart hammers in your chest, and you scan the park for familiar faces. It’s mostly empty, the lane of trees leading up to the fountain bare from the deep freeze of winter. Your eyes fall on a figure there, slouching against a tree trunk, mask pulled down so cigarette smoke floats from the corner of his mouth. Sandy blonde hair peeking from under a beanie, a scar snaking up to his jaw, but the rust eyes are the same without his skull mask.

Your eyes lock, and he holds it for a moment before his gaze sweeps up to a nearby rooftop before landing back on you. A silent question. You nod. He grimaces, and those trusting eyes sink with a sadness that engraves itself into your bones alongside the name of your puppet master.

A simple hand signal, one you’ve seen him use a hundred times.

Wait.

Your heart sinks. You want to call out to him, hurl yourself towards the safety of his arms, beg for rescue and hope that the mere touch of him and the others will erase the things you’ve done, the person you’ve become, the phantom of Makarov’s embrace. Yet Ghost warns you to wait, to stay put. They’ll find another way, one that doesn’t risk your life for the price of freedom. You can’t stand it. Here’s right there, he’s so close.

You part your lips, and you mouth to him a single word.

“Help.”

Your handler comes to collect you. Ghost is gone before the car Makarov’s man escorts you to pulls away.

Later, a stranger bumps shoulders with you at the airport, muttering an apology before running off and dragging a piece of luggage behind him. You blink after him. He looks familiar.

It’s only after you’re stashed into a safehouse, discarding your clothes on the floor of your bathroom that the note flutters free from your pocket. Handwritten, scrawled hastily. You recognize Johnny’s handwriting, with the barely dotted ‘i’s and crossed ‘t’s. Your name is written at the top. The one you’d forgotten.

This is your name. We’re not sure how much you remember, but you were a soldier, a warrior like us.

More than that, you were our ally, our friend.

He took you from us. We didn’t know, hen, we swear. We thought you died in the plane crash.

We mourned for you. We didn’t know you were alive. We didn’t know what he did to you.

We’re coming. We’ll bring you home. We won’t stop until you’re safe.

Be patient, stay alive. We’ll find a way.

If you can get away by yourself, contact Nikolai. He can help you.

Come back to us.

Please.

You memorize the cell number on the paper, look once more at the beloved words of your friends, and vanish the letter without a trace.

---

The gun in your hands is familiar. A Soviet era semi-automatic pistol, 9-millimeter. His favorite. A relic of a bygone era that continues to prove its usefulness. A ghost of the past that in so many ways mimics his ideals. Your hands close around it, feeling the cool grip against your fingers. You lift the sights to your gaze, stare beyond to the target who stands before you, his hands raised.

Price’s eyes are wide with grief and disbelief.

Behind him are the men you once called brothers. They stand in shocked silence, not reaching for their weapons, refusing to lift them to you, shoot you down, even in this. There’s heartbreak in their eyes, an inescapable despair that sucks the fabric of hope from their souls.

The gun trembles in your grip. The safety clicks off like the sound of a thunderbolt, and the voice of your true self wails in a bone chilling shriek the others don’t seem to hear. Agony pulses scorching in your blood, eyes locked with the light of anguish in Price’s stare. The cracked marrow of you, where Makarov has etched his engravings, thirsts for warm blood to soak your skin. You know the warmth of his tongue as he drinks it from your wet, heaving gasps.

“Shoot him.”

Cold, detached, a voice you’ve heard a thousand times and will hear a thousand times more. His form presses into your spine, arms looping around your waist so he props his chin on the crook of your shoulder. You don’t need to look at him to know the darkness in his eyes, the absence of a smile that he’ll only reveal in the wake of your violence.

Lips skim the shell of your ear in a feather-light touch. You shudder, instinctively pressing back into him in search of his embrace, the place where you’re safe, home, loved.

“Do you like my marionette, captain?” He asks smoothly, gaze blinking slowly like a cat. Unbothered, apathetic, cruel. “Do you like what I’ve made her?”

Price’s face hardens into fury. You startle at it, mistaking his ire not for Makarov but for you- The one who has yet to find your way back, who had earned the price of your life by killing the ones he’s fought to protect. You wonder if he can smell the viscera on your hands. You wonder if someday you’ll earn his forgiveness.

Makarov chuckles, as if he’s amused by the hateful scorn on your captain’s face. His hands snake up your sides, your arms, until his calloused palms close over the grip holding the pistol.

“Just pull the trigger, darling.” He whispers silkily. “Kill them and come back to me.”

His finger presses yours down on the trigger. You tremble. You can’t move. Price doesn’t flinch. The hollow inside you clenches so violently it forces the air from your lungs in a wet, gasping sob.

A kiss to your jaw.

“Come back to your cage, Marionette.”

The gunshot is muffled by your scream.

---

“Marionette!!”

You push at the hands that wrench you from slumber, voice rising in a wail that cracks at your throat. Hot tears overflow from your eyes, and your watery gaze takes in the looming shadow that braces above you in the dark. A whimper escapes you, and you try to pull away, to escape. Scared, confused, delirious with fear, you fumble at his hands securing your arms, begging in a wrecked plea for mercy.

“No, please-”

“Marionette.” He hisses, angry now at your fearful delusions. A hard shake forces you to gasp and suck cold air into your lungs. “Look at me.”

You do, choking on a sob, shaking from head to toe. You look at this man who had captured you and poisoned the spirit of you, made you forget even your own name. You can barely see him in the darkness aside from the glint of his predatory stare. The grip he has on you will leave bruises, and a part of you still accepts this too.

“Breathe.” He whispers, and it’s a soft sigh, gentle in comparison to his inherent viciousness. “You’re safe.”

Am I? You wonder feverishly. With you?

You force yourself to swallow as you shudder, taste the liquid pulse of your heartbeat against the cage of your ribs. It thumps in the hollow inside you, where his strings ensnare your soul.

“I saw him.” You force yourself to rasp, desperately scrambling for an excuse for your hysteria. “The man who tried to take me from you.”

Makarov’s grip on you doesn’t loosen. In the darkness, he stays silent.

He doesn’t believe you.

Panic flares inside you, and once more you whimper, quiver in his hold.

He could kill you, right here. He could stretch to cup your face in a delicate hold, whisper a soothing murmur only to snap your neck. You could die here, in his arms, in the way you are meant to.

Instead he releases a slow breath through his nose, shifts so he lays you down with you curled into his chest. His arms close around you in a tender embrace. They feel like shackles. He plants a beloved, gentle kiss to your forehead and you sob, remembering the time when it was all you ever wanted.

“It was a nightmare, beloved.” He whispers soothingly, a hand tracing your bare spine. “Just a dream.”

A hand raises up to your nape, tilts your head into the stare of his glittering darkness. He’s silent for a moment, seeing the way your eyes sparkle with tears, and you wonder if he smiles at that, enjoying the sight of your desperation. A thumb smoothes moisture across your cheek. You lean into it with a sigh.

“They’ll never take you from me.” He promises in a murmur. Low, lethal, imminent with his intent that rewrites the heavens.

You know he divines this prophecy too.

You cling to him like a child afraid of the unknown, feel the warmth of him bleed into you. You think about how his violence and vengeance scares you. You think about the way his lips taste on yours. You think about the endearments he whispers into your skin with dearest sincerity. You think about the things he’s done to you despite his affections. You think about the bruises and scars you bear as a cost of his love. You think about the death in his stare as he slaughters his betrayers...

and you know you’ll have to kill him.

Taglist:

(If you'd like to be tagged in future updates, please reblog this post and add 'taglist')

@writeforfandoms @alicesfracturedmirror @soapskneebrace @badame0224 @mayhem-baby @emrzennn @papaver-decervicatus @warenai @ggeveryone99 @justmare @merkitty49 @darkstars-14 @lostagoodcigar @gazs-blue-hat @siilvan @bucca2 @franticallyfanning @danjo-ao3 @scatter-mind001 @lonesome-doves

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#makarov x reader #makarov x you #makarov x f! reader #Makarov x y/n #cod x reader #darkfic tw #darkfic #dead dove do not eat #fic: engravings #mwIII #call of duty mwiii #cod mwiii #call of duty modern warfare 3 #x reader #reader insert

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vole-mon-amour · 4 months

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is it just me or the way Wyll blushes and hides the pic of Mizora in that xbox ad doesn't sit well with you as well?

so Mizora traps him in a contract, owns him via contract, can boss him around, yank his invisible leash, and, if he disobeyed or if she dies, he either dies as well or immediately goes to hell for an eternity. I'm a way, he's her slave. as far as he knows, he can get out out of the contract by sacrificing himself (or he can sacrifice himself to save his dad).

sure, you can go behind Mizora's back and save Ravengard, buy we'll go with Wyll Doesn't Know That for the sake of my point.

and canonically Wyll dislikes Mizora and her company. he wants to get rid of her. he hates that she turns him into a devil. he hates how he looks. he hates everything about that.

and what Larian say in that xbox ad? oh, Wyll actually blushes and keeps the implied sexy pic of Mizora and it's implied that he has a crush on her/would have sex with her.

AND Karlach, who was also a slave with no means to get out, who was sold to slavery by a person she trusted and protected, elbows Wyll and goes, "what, you don't want it?" Karlach who KNOWS how it feels and who wants to kill Gortash for what he did to her, and Mizora is Wyll's Gortash in a way.

so first we have Halsin being a sex slave for three entire years and he feared for his life every single day. yet, that info is hidden very deeply and is easily misseable, and its written in the manner of him victim blaming himself with "i was a young druid" and he chuckles as he says that and it's presented in a way way as if he had fun? as if he was there willingly? as if it's all a big joke and not a big deal?

like, i know it's a big topic, but why is only Astarion's trauma taken seriously? why is Astarion's story written and loudly told in a way that we know that Cazador tortured him in every way, including rape, and not once it's treated like a joke? but when it comes to other's slavery, abuse, and trauma, it's suddenly treated like a joke?

Halsin's story is generally badly written/portrayed & he deserves way better, and maybe I'm reaching with this because neither Shadowheart's or Gale's stories show their captors as something good (still not as detailed as Astarion's though), but somehow that slips/gets dismissed when it comes to others.

I think Larian should stop with memes and hehe haha teeheee and be serious when it comes to others' trauma, not just Astarion's.

#wyll #halsin #mizora #astarion #bg3 #karlach #baldur's gate 3 #natisplaying #i should edit that feedback i wrote on halsin #and send them #well forgive me for caring about halsin so much #and for his trauma being written like it's a joke to brush past #meta #bg3 meta #i guess #merry crisis!#larian studios

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buckybarnesss · 6 months

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Something I think is interesting is how Stiles and Scott both have troubled childhoods but it's very under the radar. Almost invisible.

Physical abuse, like what we see with Isaac's dad, is very visible. Everyone sees it and says "yes that is abuse."

But Stiles being left alone at the hospital with his dying, delusion mother? Scott's dad being a drunken, violent mess?

It's hidden.

I think this is why the sheriff is so beloved: the trauma he caused Stiles isn't something easily recognizable unless you've had experiences with a parent who tells you to your face that you're a troublemaker. I think this is why Scott's instinctive reaction to Derek is so divisive: it's a trauma response that is going unrecognized because Scott and Stiles don't really talk about it.

it really does fly under the radar that each of the og main cast of teens are deeply troubled one way or another.

teen wolf gets dismissed so easily because it is a campy, silly show that isn't some high brow avant garde piece of television. people online only know it because of the shipping or because jeff davis isn't the best at understanding how time works.

it's also in turn dismissed because it's not buffy or angel and only see it as some emulation that only existed to try to cash in on the twilight craze.

which fair. i'm certainly not going to argue it's prestige television but teen wolf contains multitudes actually. it says something actually.

at it's very heart the show is about generational trauma and overcoming said trauma. it's about growing up. it's about grief. it's about loneliness.

teen wolf says "be your own anchor". teen wolf says the people you choose to have in your life -- your pack --they make you stronger. teen wolf says even when you are at your lowest you can still rise.

it's not perfect by any means but i think people dismiss it too easily.

it tried.

but no one wants my treatise on the underlying themes of silly ol' teen wolf.

scott and stiles resolutely do not talk about their respective issues. it's unspoken between them. they don't need to because they know.

stiles is actively and openly hostile to rafael mccall for a reason. scott is quietly radiating worry and concern when stiles appears to be losing it in riddled because he knows about claudia.

the parents aren't prefect in this show. they are various shades of bad parents.

knowing rafael mccall is an alcoholic that all but abandoned his family explains everything about scott's attitude and behavior towards derek in season 1 and 2.

(no really i need to know if rafael paid melissa child support because it doesn't seem like it. throw this whole man away.)

knowing stiles has unresolved grief about not just the death of his mother but from the trauma of her illness on the family explains why he is the way he is. (the stilinski's storyline is one of the best carried emotional beats of the show).

and it's not like it's just scott and stiles.

lydia's parents are in the middle of a divorce in s1, her father talks shit about her in the parent teacher conference in the tell. he's seen when she's in the hospital after being attacked by peter but he's never seen again after that. it's natalie we see tell lydia about her mother-in-law lorraine so it seems lydia's father had his own trauma and ditched his daughter. natalie is the only parent lydia has from s2 onwards and natalie is spotty at best.

i've gone over allison's abusive family. jackson has so many issues he became a kanima instead of a werewolf. kira has sooooo many issues with noshiko. malia's traumas have traumas. liam has IED and an unexplained absent biological parent.

even the parents have trauma. chris argent has gerard as a father. the man would sell him for a bugle chip. noah stilinski had an abusive father. melissa was in an abusive marriage with an alcoholic.

and of course the king of trauma on television himself -- derek hale.

not all trauma is seen and not all abuse leaves marks on your skin.

#my blog #thoughts on teen wolf #teen wolf

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cutestkilla · 23 days

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An ask game for writers to procrastinate working on your WIP(s)

Thanks for tagging me @theearlgreymage @wellbelesbian @shrekgogurt @orange-peony @bookish-bogwitch @aristocratic-otter @youarenevertooold and @thewholelemon!

1. 🦈Tell us the name of your/ one of your WIP(s):

The only WIP I’m really actively working on right now is Hiding Out in the Open.

2. 🍄Describe your WIP/one of your WIP(s) in the format of “___ + ___ =___”

Psychology Podcast Hidden Brain + AU where Simon and Baz never got together but Simon still lost his magic and got spelled by Smith = Non-linear AWTWB-era Baz negging Simon with podcast links but actually secretly being sweet the whole time until they’re having real conversations and like, excavating some trauma until Simon figures himself out (or does he?) (He does, I’m not a monster.)

(I needed more terms for this equation, a few higher powers maybe.)

3. 🌍What tags or warnings will one of your WIP(s) need if you intend to share it?

Well, so far I’ve warned for anxiety/panic attacks, implied/referenced child abuse, mentions of cannibalism, mentions of eating bugs, AND mentions of animal cruelty. SOUNDS FUN RIGHT?

4. 🧭An alternative title to one of your WIP(s)?

So this fic is titled after a Feist song. The alternate title was a combination of a Ron Sexmith song that Feist did a great cover of and the name of the fictional podcast in my story:

Secret Heart, Invisible Mind

5. ⚠️Which WIP you're most likely to finish or update next?

Oh, it’ll be this one for sure! I have nothing else even approaching any kind of written state.

6. 💾What is your document of your WIP/ a WIP called? (not the stories actual title but what you’ve saved it as)

Well, it’s just titled after the fic. But before I had a title and was just dreaming things up, I had a doc titled “Hidden Brainstorms”. There’s also a doc in the folder for this titled “Enemies Closer” that’s filled with research I did for an episode I have to invent…

7. 🖍Post Any sentence(s) from your WIP.

“You stood him up? What the hell Basil? I cancelled my plans for this.”

8. ♻️A scrapped idea for your current WIP.

Okay so I am an idea hoarder, I rarely fully scrap an idea until I’m done writing a story, I just park them all in a dumping ground at the end of my doc for ongoing review. But one for sure scrapped idea I had for this back in the start was that Shep would co-host a podcast at some point in this story.

9. 🤔What’s a story you’d love to write but haven’t even started yet?

Welllllllll, I may have an entire (shared) Trello board for a fic that @artsyunderstudy and I have been excitedly talking about co-writing. I won't say much but it’s a Canonverse AU, featuring older strangers-to-lovers Snowbaz, and it’s a ghost story. Your basic SPOOKY SEXY SAD CATHARSIS type of deal.

10. 🤡How many WIPS are you actively working on?

Actively? One. Two if you count the Trello board which I periodically add ideas to. Three if you count the Wedding fic draft I have 20K written for and could start writing on again at ANY MOMENT.

11. 🛠Is there a scene or anything in the WIP you are struggling with right now?

Well, I’m about to be struggling with writing the scene where Baz listens to the podcast episode I have to completely invent. I have a full first rough pass at this chapter done, except that part where I just copy pasted a bunch of research notes to come back to…

12. ❤️Not a question, just a second Kudos to send.

🙏YOU get a kudos, and YOU get a kudos, and YOU get a kudos!

Tags in case you wanna: @artsyunderstudy @hushed-chorus @ivelovedhimthroughworse @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @fatalfangirl @facewithoutheart @skeedelvee @emeryhall @mooncello @monbons @angelsfalling16 @larkral @chen-chen-chen-again-chen @run-for-chamo-miles @brilla-brilla-estrellita @best--dress @onepintobean @martsonmars @messofthejess @ileadacharmedlife @urban-sith

#tag game #writer asks #carry on #hiding out in the open #my writing #sort of #i even procrastinated procrastinating tbh

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notyour-valentine · 2 years

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The Boy in the Window 20 ~ Tommy Shelby x Reader (Series)

[Masterlist] [Series Masterlist] [Taglists]

Chapter Summary: They say one is only as happy as ones least happy child...

Notes: Lets find out what happened between Tommy and Charlie, shall we? I do not consent to my work being translated, copied or posted elsewhere on this platform or any other.

Warning: Canon conforming mention of violence. Drug and alcohol abuse. Trauma. Suggestion of physical violence. Also dogshaming? (18/21+). Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Expect spoilers for Peaky Blinders Season 1-4.

Wordcount: 5057

Part 20

[Previously]

Needless to say, there was no rest for her that night.

Before the children had gotten up, the doctor had come. She had seen him being rushed up to the house by Frances, only to be led to the other side of the house.

Charlie had been deeply upset that they hadn’t left yet, only calming down when (Y/N) had sworn to him time and time again that she would not leave his side. And he took her literally on that, his hand clutching hers, and in replacement, her skirt as if she would dissolve into thin air if he let go for a single second, keeping that behaviour up for days, while refusing to go to bed unless (Y/N) joined them.

But even if her nights were early, they stayed sleepless.

Emma, on the other hand, took the change of scenery surprisingly well. After all, she had her mum, she had Charlie, she had Lisa, she had the horses and “the puppy”.

The puppy wasn’t a puppy at all, and no matter how many times Emma cooed over him, stroking his fur, rubbing his ears, telling him he was the sweetest puppy in the whole wide world, it didn't make him any more attractive.

In fact, it was the most hideous creature (Y/N) had ever seen. The dog had the colour of freshly poured whisky, apart from his pitch black ears and nose, and that reddish pink slobbering tongue which he was incapable of keeping inside his mouth. He had the rough shape of a barrel and his whole body swayed like a ship gone aground. His legs seemed far to short to carry a weight as his, a weight three times Emma’s, but it seemed her daughter was in love with the drooling beast.

This dog was another thing Tommy had brought back without a word of warning from his holiday. Just like he had a gunshot wound.

Of all the horrid revelations of that night, this one lingered.

A gunshot wound was no joke, but apparently Tommy had tried his luck, which was the reason why the doctor came every single day now, always ushered in and immediately led away up stairs.

Arrow House was a sprawling structure, with two main staircases alone.

The upper level, however, was forbidden for her, bar the part that led to Charlie’s nursery and play room, but since he was always with her, they had created a make-shift nursery downstairs.

Polly Gray’s orders kept her away, and to fulfil them she had maids sitting on chairs at the top of each and every staircase to ensure the upholding of her decree.

It was as if they were guarding a treasure, but she knew the only thing they kept hidden from her was the truth of Tommy’s condition.

She had half thought Frances’ words were a lie, but the doctor’s presence, and the bloody rags she saw the maids carrying day and night told another story.

There had been orders too, that no one was to reveal anything to her, but it seemed that one cardinal rule of womanhood still applied.

Whether it were in the small narrow spaces of Small Heath, those with large wooden tables in the farm houses or in the practically gigantic ones in Arrow House, the kitchen still remained a place of truth.

And she frequented it often with the children, she picked up on things, on whispers in corridors, on rumours and more.

As someone who had been overlooked for most her life, deemed unimportant and inconsequential, she was very good at being invisible.

Tommy had returned from his holiday, which included a stay in a hospital, with a dog and a gunshot wound. He had locked himself away and been drinking so much they ran out of gin, but it would take a while for the house of Tommy Shelby to run out of whisky and rum too, so he had changed the colour of what he was poisoning himself with.

Food returned mainly untouched, apparently replaced by cigarettes. Once he had fallen asleep and a pillow on his sofa had caught fire. That was the only time the maids were allowed to enter. Otherwise it was just Frances. More than once they had woken to find him lying on his back in the garden, at least one bottle close by.

But he had been smoking more than cigarettes too, opium- some chauffeur had explained to one of the younger maids, probably to show off. And the doctor had given him morphine recently, to force his body into rest so that his fevering wound could heal.

All these things, she pieced together from whispers, rumours and fragments of conversations that died or were shushed as soon as she came near.

(Y/N) wasn’t allowed to see him, to go anywhere near him, but even then she wouldn’t have been able to speak to him, so far gone was he still.

When she had confronted Frances a second time, she hadn’t denied any of it.

She had only assured her that they had taken good care of Charlie and kept him away from it, but whenever (Y/N) looked at the boy and felt his hands and eyes always searching for her, she knew they had failed.

While she did not know what Charlie had seen, he had seen too much.

As he was far more comfortable outside of the house than inside, they spent most of the day in the gardens, but inside, Charlie was clingy and needy and drowning in his own thoughts.

It wasn’t lost on her that while Emma played with Cyril the “puppy” or with the doll house or the other games, he was always clutching the fairy tale book, always staring at the same page.

Crouching down next to him, she stroked over his hair.

“Do you want me to read to you?”, she asked with a bright, cheery tone.

Charlie shook his head, staring at the illustration.

It was from Hansel and Gretel, showing the two children walking down the forest path, a loaf of bread in the boy’s hand, a trail of crumbs behind them.

Always that page.

“Why are you looking at the picture Charlie?”, she asked.

He took a deep breath and snapped it shut, before dropping the book to the side and climbing into her arms, locking them behind her neck and pulling her close.

She held him as long as he needed to be held.

And yet after a day meeting Barbara and her boys at the green with a picnic basket, which both children enjoyed, she found him clutching the same book, staring at the same page, once he was out of the bath.

Her heart thundered as she sat down next to him, watching him trace his fingers over the image of the two children.

"What are you thinking, Charlie?", She asked.

"That he's stupid.", He hissed under his breath, the amount of anger in his voice unusual for such a gentle child.

"I think it's quite clever.", she argued cautiously, "trying to lay a path back home, even if it's just bread."

Charlie shook his head.

"He's stupid.", Charlie repeated, his eyes flashing.

"Why would you say that?", (Y/N) asked cautiously, her hand finding his arm.

"He knows his father wants to leave him in the woods and he's stupid enough to go."

Her blood ran cold as her eyes were glued to him.

"If he were clever, he'd have taken Gretel and run far away before his father could take them out into the forest to leave them there."

His tone betrayed him.

This was about more than just the fairy tale, but when she asked if that was why he stole the pony, he tossed the book away and snuggled close to her again.

She couldn't have asked for stronger confirmation, even if it left her with a world of questions.

"Oh Charlie.", She sighed softly, stroking the back of his head.

For a split second she feared he would pull away, but instead he only came closer.

It was a long while before he gathered the courage to let go.

Charlie's words haunted her more than any regret ever had. They made her blood run cold and the hairs on the back of her head stand.

He was hurting. She could see it, sense it and feel it.

There was the way his head snapped up every time someone opened the door.

There was the way he clung to her in the night and the way he'd refuse to go upstairs.

There was the way he only truly played when he was outside and the way he would stare at his father's many portraits with wide shining eyes.

And then there was his silence, that agonizing, suffocating silence.

It was draining him and it was draining her in turn.

She did not know the cause of his sadness, but she felt it in her bones like it was her own.

And nothing brought her even the slightest bit of joy, not even the things that delighted Emma, so long as Charlie was still sad.

They were happy when together, as long as they were outside in the fresh air, with the horses during their riding lessons, but even then she could feel it radiating from him.

And she liked watching them, even if seeing little Charlie on such a big horse and her own darling Emma all the way up on a pony set her teeth on edge.

But it also gave her the opportunity to talk to Frances without the children hearing and without Charlie getting anxious.

And so she was glad when she saw the woman make her way over the green to where she watched the children.

“You wanted to see me, Mrs Hale.”, she said politely.

“How’s Tommy?”, she asked, knowing she wouldn’t get a proper answer.

“Better.”, Frances said, watching her closely.

“Tell me what you see.”

The cleared her throat and frowned as she followed her eyes.

“Well, it’s Master Charles and Miss Emma, Ma’am. They’re riding.”

She was unable to keep the dubious tone from slipping through.

(Y/N) nodded.

“And how do they look?”, she asked, her brows furrowed.

“Miss Emma looks very concentrated.”, Frances admitted with a hint of amusement. “She seems to take it very seriously.”

That made her lip twitch with the beginning of a proud smile.

“And Charlie?”

“Master Charles looks…I don’t know how to say.”

Me too.

He was looking at the horse, or at Emma, with great care, occasionally patting the animal in praise. In a way, he looked as if he was focussed and lost in thought at the same time, as if his mind was somewhere else.

“You see it too, don’t you?”, she asked Frances. “You see he’s hurting.”

After all, the woman had cared for him for longer than (Y/N) had done, and not only in the way of performing chores.

Frances nodded with a sigh and she saw the regret on her face.

“I want to protect him.”, she told Frances. “I want to make sure that whatever hurt him will never happen again.”

She did not make this vow in a church, guided along by a priest, but she needed none of that to make it a holy oath.

“Of course, Mrs Hale.”, Frances said.

“So you understand I need to know what happened.”

She sighed and shifted as if (Y/N) had struck her, and in a way she had.

Frances was loyal to the master of the house, but (Y/N) also knew she wanted the best for Charlie.

For a while she could see the divided loyalties waging war inside her until she sighed.

“Mr Shelby’s been in a bad way.”, she said. “His wound caused a fever, but he refused a doctor. He only drank and…other things.”

Opium.

Still, (Y/N) made sure not to let her emotions betray her as she just continued looking at the two children in the paddock riding in circles.

“There was an incident with a maid. She had been rather close with Mr Shelby before he left for Birmingham and, well, she-”

Frances sighed, “I think she wanted to rekindle whatever they had.”

With pursed lips, (Y/N) nodded, beckoning her to continue.

“And, well, Mr. Sheby didn’t take too kindly to that. There was a lot of shouting and he threw a bottle - not at her,”, she was quick to add, “but at the wall opposite her. Since then only I entered the office or his bedroom for safety reasons. A lot of the maids are rather young and inexperienced with matters like these.”

(Y/N) didn’t ask just how one got experience in matters like these, if that were even possible.

“One evening when it was bad, Mr Shelby caused quite an amount of noise and hurt himself, so I went to fetch some bandages.”, she said, swallowing hard before she could continue. “And when I returned, Master Charles, even though he was supposed to be in bed, had entered the study. He didn’t touch him or speak to him, but he saw the state of his father, even if for just a moment.”

Frances shuddered at the memory and apologised profusely, but (Y/N) knew that that wouldn’t be it, as tragic as it sounded.

Something was missing, something Frances did not know.

And that unnerved her even more.

She knew she had to pick her time carefully.

It was a delicate matter handling a broken heart of any kind, especially that of a child. She needed to know, but at the same time she feared she could push too far and hurt him even more, and she’d never forgive herself if that happened.

Both children still slept in one bed with her, even after all these nights and the daily offers for them to return to their own beds.

Charlie didn’t want to leave her side, especially at night and Emma simply didn’t want to feel left out and so she went to bed with a child in each arm, sometimes with two heads resting on her chest, snoozing off to the sound of her singing.

While they drifted off to sleep peacefully, it never stayed that way.

Emma was a restless sleeper and before long she felt knees or elbows or feet prodding at her, making her turn so that she could at least shield Charlie from Emma’s knockturnal and unintended onslaught.

But Charlie didn’t always sleep peacefully either.

Sometimes he woke, and she would know because he’d always move closer, would always seek the warmth of her skin and softness of her body.

When her hand found the back of his head, he realised she was awake too and looked up, pale blue eyes shining in the little light of the moon that snuck through the curtains.

(Y/N) shifted, sitting up and leaning her back against the headboard, making sure not to wake Emma in the process.

Charlie followed, climbing into her lap so that his chest was pressed to hers with his legs on either side of hers.

She stroked his cheeks as she met his eyes.

“Charlie love,”, she whispered, “please tell me what happened.”

He swallowed hard and dropped his head, leaning it against her chest.

With a sigh, she brushed her fingers through his hair, closing her eyes and wishing on everything she could wish that he would be alright, that he would be carefree and happy again. She prayed even, for this child that had not been born form her body and yet he belonged into her arms the same way Emma did.

He wasn’t her son, but he was her boy and the fact that he was hurting and she couldn’t kiss or sooth of comfort it away, shattered her heart.

She’d give anything to make his pain disappear without a moment’s hesitation.

When he spoke his voice was so soft she almost thought it was fragment of her imagination, if she hadn’t felt his breath on her chest.

“Dad doesn’t want me anymore.”

Tilting her head forward, she bit back the desire to tell him that his father loved him. This wasn’t about her convincing him. This was about her finding out just why he felt the way he did.

“Why do you say that?”, she asked, her lips brushing against the top of his head.

“Cause he said.”, Charlie whispered, his fingers clutching her nightgown.

She took a deep breath and wrapped her arms around him tighter.

“What happened, Charlie?”, she asked.

For half an eternity, there was just silence and the sound of Emma’s peaceful breathing, while (Y/N) held her breath.

“I know I wasn’t supposed to go.”, Charlie finally whispered. “But there was a bang and the last time there was one Dad was bleeding, so I wanted to go and make sure he was alright.”

(Y/N)’s heart sank but she dug her teeth into her lip so that she wouldn’t interrupt him, not when he was finally speaking.

“He didn’t see me at first, only when I was right next to him. He’d fallen down again and I only wanted to help him up.”

Every muscle in Charlie’s body tensed as he snuggled into her as if he wanted to become a part of her and seek cover in her embrace.

“He said…”

He broke off, rubbed his head against her chest again and took a shaky breath.

“Tell me.”, she whispered, her voice strained with fear. “Tell me what he said, Charlie.”

“He asked what I was doing here…if I didn’t have enough already and- and then he screamed at me to go away. He was so angry he punched the floor and then he fell again and said he never wanted to see me again.”

Charlie’s words ended in a shattering sob.

She gripped him tightly and pulled him up until his head was against her shoulder, rocking him in her arms as his tears ran down the side of her neck and under her nightgown while hers mixed with the tears on the top of his head.

“He doesn’t want me anymore.”, Charlie whimpered. “He doesn’t want me anymore.”

Pulling back, he stared at her out of reddened teary eyes, his shining lips quivering as his cheeks shone with tears.

“You want me, don’t you?”, he asked, his voice faint and filled with fear.

The fact that he was doubting even that, hurt more than any punch, any stab, and broken bone ever could.

“Oh my love!”, she whispered, her vision blurring with tears of her own. “Of course I want you.”

She cupped his face between her hands and stroked his cheek.

“I want you and I need you, Charlie. You’re my darling boy - forever and always!”

Before she could finish, Charlie had flung himself into her arms again, crying softly as she repeated her promise again and again, wanting to banish any doubt he would ever have from his body.

She would say it a thousand times and prove it to him a million more, every day until that knowledge would come to him as naturally and as easy as breathing, the same way it came to her.

Her promise made Charlie’s heart lighter, but it weighed hers down.

In those days of uncertainty she had thought of any possibility that might have happened, but now that she knew, it was even more unexplainable to her than the alternative.

Tommy loved his son, she had seen it with her own eyes- how he looked at him when he thought it could be the last time, how he held him before leaving to face death, how he clung to him when he returned from battle.

She had seen watch him play and watch him sleep, had seen him hold him, had seen him kiss him.

(Y/N) could have understood if his state had terrified the boy. Mere mentions of it was enough to terrify her.

She would have believed that easily, but Tommy saying things like that to his son?

Her heart ached at the thought.

But at the same time she knew Charlie wasn’t lying.

He still stared at the pictures of his father with that kind of heartbreak in his eyes that came from the worst, the deepest kind of rejection that only the person you loved most could cause.

Even if he felt safer now, knowing he’d always have a place with her and Emma, but it would not heal the wound deep inside him, if anything ever could.

Not even the children’s play could tear her from her thoughts as she watched them running around the garden behind the terrace, throwing balls for the ‘puppy’ to fetch.

For a monstrosity of these proportions, he was incredibly agile.

The children tried to outrace him, and they sometimes, but not always succeeded.

She had brought them outside for a reason.

The last few days had brought significant change and if the whispers of the maids, as well as what Lisa told her were to be believed, Tommy was finally out of bed and even walking back and forth on the upper floor.

There was also rumours of discussions in regards to the future.

It couldn’t not make her nervous, so she wasn’t surprised when Frances approached her.

Since she hadn’t asked for her or for anything, she knew she had news.

“Mr Shelby and Mrs Gray had a conversation today, in regards to you and the children.”, she began, holding her hands steady in front of her chest.

“And?”, she asked.

Frances swallowed hard.

“Mr Shelby has agreed.”

“Agreed?”, she asked, crooking her brow.

“Agreed to let you take Charlie. You and the children can return to Warburton House. There will be more money and you will get greater control over the decisions in his life, as his primary caretaker.”

A few days ago, she would have jumped up, grabbed a child on each hand and ran, but since then she had discovered the cause of Charlie’s unhappiness.

And things had changed.

“I want to speak to Tommy.”, she said.

Frances shot her down straight away.

“That won’t be possible.”

“It is possible,”, (Y/N) said sharply, “If he is capable of talking to his aunt, he can talk to me.”

“Mrs Hale-”

When she realised there was no convincing the woman, she decided to take matters into her own hands and got up, making her way inside.

She’d find his office or his bedroom or wherever he was. It would undoubtedly be behind the grandest door at the top of the grandest staircase.

Frances was close on her heel, calling her name, asking her to stop.

She didn’t.

“Mrs Hale!”, she called again as (Y/N) made her way up the staircase.

“Mrs Hale, please!”

She caught up with her at the top of the stairs, her hand finding her arm for good measure.

“You can’t!”, she demanded harshly, panting slightly. “Mr Shelby does not want to see you and Mrs Gray has forbidden you from being up here.”

“If there is one thing,”, (Y/N) she snarled, “that I do not care about in the slightest is what Mrs Gray has or hasn’t forbidden.”

Frances looked at her with pleading eyes, before shooing one of the maids away.

“I will speak to Tommy.”, she announced firmly.

“You can-”

“I will speak to him for Charlie’s sake!”

Her voice echoed off of the wooden panelling.

“You care about him!”, she snapped at her. “You should understand.”

Her anger raised her voice beyond her control. She wasn’t screaming just yet, but speaking so loudly, Frances wouldn’t have been the only one to hear.

“He broke his heart and I demand to know why.”

Frances’ eyes widened and her mouth dropped open.

Good.

If it took some shock for the woman to understand so be it.

“If I take him away now without an explanation, without an apology, that pain will only fester!”

Only when Frances’ hand on her wrist tightened did she realise she wasn’t looking at her, not any more, but rather over her shoulder.

(Y/N)’s own head snapped around just in time to catch the final glimpse of him before he vanished through a door.

For a split second she was frozen to the spot the same way Frances was, but she had come up her with one thing in mind and she refused to back down now.

Tearing away from Frances she closed the short distance between her and the painted wooden door, twisting the cold brass to force it open.

“Tommy!”, she called after him, seeing his figure move away from her, through this small living room of sorts.

“Tommy!”

He didn’t stop, didn’t even flinch.

When he slammed the door shut behind him, it nearly hit her in the face, but even if it had and shattered her nose, she wouldn’t have slowed down.

“Tommy stop!”, she ordered, following him around a corner and into an office.

She closed the door and twisted the door knob until the lock clicked into place, trapping her with him - or him with her.

At least they wouldn’t be disturbed by Frances of Mrs Gray or anyone else.

Tommy heard the click too.

He still had his back turned, staring out at his estate instead of looking at her.

“Tommy talk to me!”, she demanded.

He had lost weight, his once perfectly tailored undershirt hanging looser on his shoulders, no longer brushing against the lean muscle he had once had and when he had made an effort to get away from her, she had seen the slight limp on his left.

Under the baggy fabric she could see the bandage at his side.

“Just fucking take him!”, he hissed at the window, his voice trembling.

“He wants to go, you want to take him. Just fucking do it!”

(Y/N) shook her head, her hands coiling into fists.

“No, not until you explain!”, she demanded.

A shudder went through him, slumping his shoulders.

“I thought you cared about him.”, he hissed, venom in his voice.

It was oil on her anger which she had nursed for weeks now.

“I care about him!”, she snarled, rushing towards him and past the large mahogany desk.

“I care about him more than I can tell and if I loved him any less I would take him away at once, but he’s hurting, Tommy. He’s hurting so badly right now and I demand to know why!”

She grabbed his shoulder, her fingers clutching his shirt as she forced him to turn.

The sight almost made her gasp.

He had always been pale but his skin was white and patchy. His hair, which had since the war always been shorn at the sides had grown longer than she remembered it, almost as long since before the war. It had been a while since he had seen a barber it seemed and a razor blade judging by the stubble on his chin and cheeks, but that was far from the end.

His eyes had a reddish gleam to him, sunken and adorned with dark circles.

His cheeks had fallen, and his already sharp cheekbones made his face resemble that of a skull more than that of a man.

It was a terrifying sight that shook her to her core.

Seeing her reaction, he scoffed and turned away.

“You don’t understand.”, he muttered, reaching for his cigarettes.

His hands shook as he reached for the matches instead of the lighter.

“You don’t fucking understand.”

She tore the cigarette from his lips and tossed it on the floor, making his shining blue eyes flash with rage.

“No I do not understand!”, she insisted. “I do not understand how you could do that- how you could say that!”

His jaw clenched, but she was far from finished.

“You love him!”, she cried as her eyes filled with tears of anger and shared pain. “You love that little boy more than anything and he adores and admires you-”

Her voice broke but she kept talking anyways.

She had to.

“How?”, she demanded to know, every word trembling.

“How could you do that to him?”

Tommy dropped his head in shame, his lips slightly parted and his eyes closed as if that would somehow change the truth of his sins.

“He is your boy! How could say you never wanted to see him again?”

His eyes shot up for a fragment of a second, but not to look at her.

Instead they glanced at the pictures that stood on his desk.

One was of Charlie, when he was but a baby still in the arms of his unfortunate mother, but that was not the picture he was looking at, that one stood on the other side.

No, the one Tommy’s eyes had found showed his own mother with her long, thick dark curls sitting surrounded by her children.

Arthur and Tommy, barely twelve or thirteen of age were standing behind her, as proud as princes with their longer hair and old hand me down clothes.

It had been years before Finn was born and Ada still had her own long braids and round, girlish cheeks. She was standing on one side of her mother, with her closest brother on the other side.

He too had the round cheeks of lingering baby fat, with light blond hair and blue eyes.

That was the one Tommy had looked at, not Arthur, not his mother or Ada.

And that was when it hit her, clear as day.

The fever, the drink, the opium - it would have enough to dull even the sharpest, clearest of minds, let alone that of a man deep in grief, more than enough to summon demons from the depth of even the purest soul.

A hand shot up, covering her open mouth as she clutched the edge of the table for support.

“Oh my God!”, she whispered.

Tommy shook his head faintly, and when he lifted his gaze she could see the tears in his eyes.

Her own tears began to run down her cheeks, unable to be held back by this realisation.

“Tommy- you thought he was John?”

End of Part 20

Part 21

Thank you for reading! I’d be very grateful for feedback of any kind!

Taglist (see here for more)

@lilyrachelcassidy @jyessaminereads @watercolorskyy @books-livre @chlorrox @quarterpastmidnight @lilyevanswhore @polishcrazyone @zablife @just-a-harmless-patato

Tommy

@knowledgefulbutterfly @babayaga67 @signorellisantichrist @lespendy

The Boy in the Window

@katiebugg03 @esistmon @chlorrox @theshelbyslimited @budugu @woofgocows @orkwardx0 @judig92 @100percentamess @kabbuu @esposadomd @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere @starsnsecrets @ladylovesalot @katiepie67 @acoolnight @chaotic-onigiri @ohshititsfenharel @muhahaha303 @xoprincessmel @shittingonyourgrave @pessimisticbiitch @elisa20beth @simran-preet19 @majesticcmey @akiisbae @iwantmyredvelvetcupcake @vodkainthecoffee @pearlstiare @jk-acc @cutecurly-hair @lovecleastrange @kishie8 @kirenia15 @nervousmumbling @babayaga67 @mbv2361 @pheitvsx @alessioayla @kishie08 @butterfly-skinnylegendegend @mrsmalfoyshelby @lostgirl219 @rangerelik @kishie8 @burninggracesandbridges @just-a-harmless-patato @globetrotter28 @blackravena

#the boy in the window #valentineswritings #tommy shelby #thomas shelby #peaky blinders #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagine #Thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby fanfic #tommy shelby fanfic

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wheredidhiseyebrowsgo · 9 months

Note

Hello, I was wondering if you had any angst and fluff scisaac fanfics that are more then 5,000 words. Any with smut included is fine

@kevaaronday made this list for us!

Because I Trust You by sunmoontruth

(77/77 | 575,650 | Teen | MCD | Scisaac) It’s such a simple phrase, but it means everything. All Isaac has ever wanted is to be trusted, and he is. Scott trusts him. Though, looking at him now, Isaac knows there’s something Scott’s not telling him.

It isn’t just trust. It’s more than that.

“You trust me?” Isaac asks. His voice is soft, almost teasing. The pieces are coming together now. Isaac is starting to get it.

—

A retelling of the Teen Wolf series where Isaac doesn't leave. Spans from season 3A to season 6B.

Destiny Is A Tricky Thing by GeekLover (6/6 | 24,546 | Teen | Scisaac) When Scott and Isaac meet they form an instant connection, but the timing just isn't right. Years later they can't forget the night they spent together. Will destiny get out of their way and let them find their way back to each other? Sometimes you have to give destiny a little push.

And the Reason Is You by Mesita (3/3 | 20,884 | Teen | Scissac) 'In which Isaac is a teenage gravedigger with a shitty, unfair life and Scott is the ghost who decides to follow him home one day.'

Mi Único by Flukas (6/6 | 17,154 | Teen | Scisaac) Scott's family was cursed generations ago, and since then, they've each suffered from la llamada, a calling that reveals their único amor in a (quite literal) shocking burst of emotion. Almost everyone he'd ever heard of finding their único did so before they were 21 years old. Here Scott was, a 27 year old veterinarian, and he still had not heard la llamada or suffered from the rumored maldición. He was losing hope that there was someone out there that he could love the way his abuelita loved his abuelo—the way his mother tried to love his father.

A last minute appointment with a sad puppy and his equally sad owner changes things. Unfortunately for Scott, not all romances are guaranteed, and not even all únicos return the love they are given. He'd known that since the day his father left and never looked back.

He hoped desperately that his único Isaac was nothing like his father.

What’s Hidden From Me by Wolfheart (1/1 | 14,512 | Teen | Scisaac) There was a look here, a touch there. This had been going on for weeks. It really shouldn't have taken Scott this long to notice what was happening between him and Isaac. Unfortunately, it took Scott even longer to realize what it meant.

invisible string by empirestrikesback (1/1 | 8,924 | Mature | Scisaac) When your soulmate gets a tattoo, the same one appears on your skin. And Scott McCall fears that they don't have one.

Mochas, Coronas and Tequila by bewarethesmirk (1/1 | 6,797 | Explicit | Scisaac) Isaac is a loner, down-on-his-luck barista. Then Scott bustles in, with his puppy dog eyes and penchant for mochas, and he and Isaac become buddies. As these things go, Isaac wants more.

The Simple Things by Misstrickster (2/2 | 6,630 | Not Rated | MCD | Scisaac) Isaac gets into a car accident and ends up in the hospital. Where he ends up meeting Scott a fellow patient with crooked smile.

Blue Neighborhood by LovelyLuna (1/1 | 5,461 | Mature | Scisaac) Isaac lives with his abusive father and his life is in shambles. The only thing that ever makes it any better is Scott.

lost (in the thrill of it all) by orphan_account (1/1 | 5,029 | Gen | Scisaac) "Why are you being such a sourwolf, Scott?" Stiles shrieks, directly into Scott's ear. He winces. "What's wrong?"

Scott looked at his drink, his flat beer looking more and more unappealing by the second. "Nothing, Stiles. Nothing wrong at all."

"Liar." Malia flicks him. "Heartbeat."

Stiles makes an affronted look- or attempts to, in all his drunken glory- and it's enough to make Scott chuckle lowly. "Scott! No lying! No secrets between best friends!"

Scott's laugh dies away, and he bites his lip thoughtfully.

"I think-" His throat closes up a bit, and he looks aat his toes. "I think I'm going to go to France." -

alternatively, tracking down isaac, like most things in scott's life, is extremely difficult.

#teen wolf #scisaac #scott mccall #isaac lahey #major character death #abuse

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writeyouin · 6 months

Note

Greetings, can I request some V x very easily flustered (or just very shy) and very small (I mean in height) reader?. I just like the scenario were V will be all the time complementing the reader, and they will be very flustered (To the point that they can be as red as a tomato, ur just have fun reactions, like panicking or covering their faces with their hands). I think V will enjoy (or just find it cute) the reader's reaction. (Thanks for Bless us with such beautiful content) Thank you! 💞

V X Reader – Sincerity

A/N – As always, Happy Bonfire Night everyone, and may this small fic fill in the parched desert that is the V for Vendetta fandom.

Warnings – None.

Raring – T

You stood among the suits of armour, an underdressed member of their guard as you leaned against the wall and caught your breath, clutching your hands tightly against your chest. You knew you were probably acting silly, having hurriedly left V after he had paid you several compliments, but you simply couldn’t handle that kind of attention.

When you had been in the heart of London, working every day and doing everything you could to remain invisible, you had always hated it when anyone saw through you. There were men who enjoyed abusing their power over someone as small as you. They did things that made you shudder, like backing you into small spaces, forcing you to pay them attention as they proceeded to cat-call you, or try and take you to a secondary location. Granted, it wasn’t an everyday occurrence, but it happened often enough to frighten you. Worst of all, when such things happened, you couldn’t rely on anyone else to help you, as everyone else just wanted to be invisible as well.

Don’t get noticed and you won’t disappear. If you were invisible, there would be no black bag to take you away to a place none ever returned from. This was the price of safety in the Chancellor’s London, and it worked… until it didn’t.

Or rather, you had bought into the lie that it worked in the people’s favour, until you met V and he showed you that the system had never worked. It was a broken, cruel thing, and anybody who had fought against it had been murdered or made an example of.

There was no getting around it.

People of colour shouldn’t be despised. The only ones allowed to remain alive were test subjects or the rare pass holders, who had been given exceptions for reasons as of yet unknown to even them, though V speculated they were only there as a future scapegoat if the Chancellor ever needed a new terrorist threat. There were multiple sexualities, and they shouldn’t have to be hidden for fear of execution. Other religions could have made the country stronger, with multiple opinions that could make it more accepting instead of being persecuted, their followers tortured and murdered.

After becoming something of a pupil to V, you learned all this and more. At first, you felt his rage seethe through every sentence he said, his words choking you, challenging you, forcing you to fight through the hazy smog of lies you had been fed every day in your old life. Yet, given time, as the two of you got to know one another, V’s sharp tone dulled a little, he calmed, and he was gentler with you. Granted, his venomous verbosity still broke through when he spoke about the things that infuriated him, but he seemed to accept that you were with him entirely, and so he made sure you knew that his hatred wasn’t directed your way.

With that change in your dynamic, he became suave, charming, and genteel. V had always been well-spoken, but he seemed to pay you more attention, and although you had never enjoyed any attention from anyone in the past, it seemed now that you didn’t know how to feel about it.

Other men’s attention had been dangerous, and terrifying as they chased their pleasure by ensuring that they were in charge, feeding off your fear and weakness. V, however, looked for your strengths, and the things that made you, you.

If you were reading, he would praise you for opening your mind, especially when you read his collection of contraband books that taught you such concepts as Marxism, the abolition of governments, and other countries around the world which your pitiful island had cut itself off from.

When you took time to help V by maintaining his weaponry, cleaning it, or removing any damaged daggers from his arsenal, he took the time to thank you, bowing with a flourish of his cape so you would feel as appreciated as you had made him feel.

If you were idling in the hallways, admiring some art pieces, or questioning others, he would appear quietly behind you, his velvet tread never giving away his position until he wished to make himself known. Then, he would challenge you to reveal your thoughts and praise you for your appreciation of that which had been forbidden, and your bravery for speaking your truth.

He said that, ‘When a person has only their opinions with no fact laid before them, their opinion becomes truth which, if said aloud, is the real bravery of the mind.’

That, like everything else he said left you breathless. It wasn’t so much the fact that he was complimenting you, but rather that his words held no trace of a lie. When he bowed before you, he was humble, when he praised you, he was kind. His words, unlike the lies of those above, were sincere, and frankly, that sincerity frightened you a little. You hadn’t been trained to react to sincerity since there was so little of it left in the world.

How ironic it was that the people above, used lies to mask themselves, but V used his mask to help him speak the truth.

“(Y/N), are you quite alright?” V’s voice broke through your thoughts.

“I-” You froze, uncertain of what to say. It was clear that after leaving so brusquely, V had come to check on you.

He raised a gloved hand to your cheek, his thumb brushing over it. You flushed red at the unexpected action. You shouldn’t have been surprised; V was always much more forward than you.

“I-” You tried again. “I think I just needed a minute,” You finally managed, your eyes downcast.

“How very wonderful of you, taking the time to compose yourself in such a manner, though I must admit,” V closed in on you, towering over you and making you feel so very small as you craned your neck to look up into the black eyes that hid those beneath. You never wondered what was beneath the mask, for those black eyes, pale face, and rosy cheeks, though worn for the theatrics of his chosen role, were indeed V.

“Admit what?” You asked at his pause, craving his answer, yet terrified all the same. How terrible it was to wish for intimacy but feel too shy to receive it simultaneously.

“You are most breathtaking when you blush so, like the red of a rose, blooming in full to shame the other flowers in the garden.”

You felt your cheeks burn further and moved to look away, but V gently held your chin up between his index finger and thumb.

“Yes, there it is. My vivacious blushing rose. A sight to behold.”

You held your breath. You had no idea what had brought on such attention from V, only that you were sure it wasn’t good. He was acting differently as if it might be the last time that you would see him, and that was why he was making such bold announcements.

You knew he had no plans to die since he hadn’t gotten to his targets, and wouldn’t for some years to come since he still had much to learn about the security systems of the locations he planned to attack, but you were now certain that he had at least one or two dangerous activities planned. It was likely he was planning to steal some valuable equipment, or something better guarded than his usual trips to the contraband vaults that the Chancellor kept hidden from the public.

All the same, you knew that if you voiced your concerns or asked V what he was planning, he would likely close off and try to keep you out of it, in the safety of the Shadow Gallery where you now belonged, one of his many treasures.

“V, may I ask something of you?” You said, instead of voicing your true thoughts.

“Always,” V replied sincerely.

“Please will you play something for me?”

“Music?” V sounded amused by the unexpected request. “Of course. It would be my greatest pleasure to have your audience.”

He stepped back and offered his arm, “Shall we?”

You grasped his arm, allowing him to escort you to the music hall where his piano awaited him. If he had chosen to play only for himself, you knew he would have sung his favourite tune, The Violent Cabaret; it was a song of his own composition and it always riled him up, ready for a reckless adventure.

However, since he was going to play for you, you knew that he would pick something thoughtful and mellisonant. Perhaps, in taking a minute to think of what you would like to hear, he would be forced to remember that he had you to come back to, and he wouldn’t take so many unnecessary risks. You hoped that was true. It had to be true. V would always come back. He had to since fate was cruel and Cupid a joker.

If he didn’t return you would die, since you were unfortunately falling in love with him. It was like Romeo and Juliet, if Juliet had known from the start that Romeo planned on dying, and was still doomed to love him.

Nothing good would come of this, and you had his Doomsday burned into your mind. One year, in the near future, it would be the fifth of November, and you would be alone, broken by V’s death.

#v for vendetta #v #v x reader #v x you #fanfiction #fanfic #reader #reader insert #sincerity

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renmorris · 8 months

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Jupe. Man. I’m thinking about the legacy of trauma and abuse endured by child actors since the dawn of cinema as much of a legacy as the erasure black crew people and stuntmen

I'm thinking about how invisible that trauma is to the rest of the world, despite it being something everyone kind of knows about. I’m thinking about how I was trying not to scream during the Gordy scene when I realized Jupe and Mary Joe were still there they were still on set and no one helped them for what seems like an impossible length of time

thinking about how the network buried the show, making Jupe and Mary Joe's trauma even more invisible.

the way Jupe processes that trauma through a hidden room full of memorabilia and a distasteful SNL skit because that’s all that’s left of the story at this point I think I’m going to throw up!!!

#nope spoilers

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astarionslittlejuicebox · 5 months

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The Promise of Eternity (Part 14)

Author: @astarionslittlejuicebox

Imagine: The reader helped Astarion ascend and became his spawn. After saving the world from the Elder brain and it’s destruction, the reader and Astarion set out to take on the world together. While he promised to never forget the gifts the reader has given him, Astarion has seemed to have changed his attitude towards the reader in the last century…. After someone breaks one of Astarion’s rules, how will this affect the reader’s fate?

Pairing: Astarion x F!Reader

Trigger warnings: potential for minor spoilers, suggestive themes, language, mentions of death, mentions of blood, abusive relationship, mention of slavery, mentions of murder

Word Count: 1506

Imagine Series

Side Notes:

This imagine series takes place 200 years after the events of Baldur’s Gate 3. Everything you read in here is a story from my mind outside of the original BG3 character Astarion.

In this imagine series, Astarion is a bit more unemotionally unavailable, and this series will follow the decisions and consequences of that change. This is not canonically accepted and it is just an idea I’ve had in my head! (I do believe Astarion might truly care for the reader after Ascension, but that is open to individual interpretation.)

In this series, TAV is mildly based on my first character I played in BG3; she is a drow and I will make references to her in her background and knowledge as well. I do apologize that it is not 100% your own imagine, but the name for TAV is up to you as well as anything else that I can think of leaving to you, the reader, to decide.

I appreciate everyone who reads the imagines and this series, and I hope you enjoy the story!

TAV POV

I awoke with a jolt at the sound of several knocks on Astarion’s door. He chuckled as his arms pulled me back to him.

“Whomever it is, they can wait.” He whispered into my ear. “If it’s the fucking tiefling, she will get the message.” Another knock sounded at the door, but more urgent than the one before.

“She’ll get curious if you don’t answer.” I whispered to him as I nudged him with my nose. “You could drink the antidote and play some games with her.”

“What about you?” He hummed. “What will you do?” I smiled at him.

“Oh I’ll be here, enjoying the show, hidden from sight.” Astarion raised an eyebrow as I sat up then walked across the room to give him the antidote from my satchel. He drank the contents of the bottle before he gave it back to me. “Old habits from Cazador die hard, don’t they?” I gave a small chuckle.

“But this time you’re fully in control.” I gave him a wink and a kiss before turning myself invisible. Astarion bore a sly smile before he threw a robe over his naked body and answered the door. The tiefling had her hand posed to knock again.

“There you are! I was beginning to worry that something had happened to you!” Her nasal voice made the eyeballs in my head roll within their sockets while Astarion gave her the fakest smile I’ve seen from him in centuries.

“I was merely still dreaming sweet dreams about you, dearest.” The pale elf did his best to hide the malice in his voice as he called her the pet name, and I almost missed it. The tiefling looked none-the-wiser as she stepped into the room. A panicked thought crossed my mind as I glanced over to see my dress still in a pile on the bathroom floor. I quietly rushed into the bathroom and slid my dress out of view from the doorway and quietly threw it into the bottom of the laundry hamper. If they think I’m gone, then I need to not leave evidence that I’m here. When I returned to the doorway, the tiefling had her arms wrapped around Astarion’s neck, and I felt my blood boil with anger. Keeping my cool, I stalked over to stand behind her. My hands itched to wrap themselves around her delicate neck as my fangs begged to be buried in her neck.

Two hundred years of habits from Cazador make it easy. Astarion’s words echoed in my ears. Fake a smile, play the part, and everything is fine. I put my tongue between my teeth as he kissed her lips in what appeared to any spectator to be a passionate kiss. A thought occurred to me at this moment: why did the fae stick around for a century? Her clawed fingers dug into his curls, and I tried my best not to let my jealousy rear its ugly head and choke her with the cord that conveniently held the nearby drapes in place. As they kissed passionately, I caught a glimpse of the chef passing by in the hallway, who had stopped to look upon the scene in the bedroom.

Someone forgot to shut the door. I thought to myself as a look of anger and jealousy flashed briefly on the elf’s face. I studied the elf in curiosity as I reflected on the betrayal he was committing against Hiedra. She had believed him to be making a permanent charming potion, but he was secretly making a potent poison to kill the vampire lord himself to avenge his daughter. I felt my lips curl upwards in amusement of it all, and the chef left to continue his path to wherever he was going. Noticing that things were getting heated between Astarion and the tiefling, I took it upon myself to follow the chef.

I was only aware of the lack of clothes on me as the chilled air of the halls raised goosebumps on my skin—something that hadn’t happened in over two hundred years. Shaking away the appreciation of becoming an ascended vampire, I focused on the mutterings coming from the chef.

“I am only toying with him.” He said in a high-pitched, mocking tone. “Once he’s under our control I will never have to do those things with him again.” I fought the urge to laugh as it seemed the chef was highly bothered by the behaviors of the fae.

It seems that not everyone’s partners are as tolerant of the situation as others are. I thought to myself as I followed him into the kitchen.

“We shall see how she reacts when the vampire drops dead after his morning glass of wine.” He sinisterly spoke as he walked over to the counter in the middle of the large room. A fire roared in the fireplace on the far back wall with a black cauldron cooking a heavenly smelling dish. I recognized the bottle sitting on the black marble surface as the bottle from the chest in the chef’s room—the one I had determined to be poison. Ahriman paused to look up at the ceiling. “Then we will finally have our revenge, Maryanna.” The elf then turned his attention to continue preparing breakfast, and I slipped away without a sound. Rushing to my room, the invisibility spell fell as I closed the door to my bedchambers. I looked around the room as the place had appeared to be ransacked: books and clothes scattered haphazardly on the floor. Several of my decorations had been discarded and broken on the floor, and my chest at the bottom of the bed had been left open.

I rolled my eyes as I carefully stepped over the items on the floor and made my way into the closet, where more of my clothes were thrown about. I picked up a tight-fitting black shirt and black leather pants before dressing myself. Deciding to wear soft-soled leather shoes, I covered my feet before I heard the bedchamber door open. My eyes widened as I quietly uttered the words for the invisibility spell and peered from behind the wall of the doorway.

Astarion stood in the doorway with a scrutinizing lookas he took in the scene in my bedchambers. I watched his crimson eyes absorb every piece of broken decor and every fabric thrown upon the floor with a slight frown before the tiefling appeared in the doorway behind him. His crimson eyes flashed with anger as he took in the violation of my space, but the tiefling stepped inside the room.

“In her hurry to leave, I think she forgot something of high importance….” The nasal voice trailed off as she approached the bed and picked up a vial of red liquid for Astarion to see. “It appears that your beloved spawn has broken one of your rules.” I felt the blood boil within my veins as I witnessed the fae trying to frame me for the blood stolen from Astarion. I studied the vampire as pure anger showed on his face as he took the vial from her clawed hand. “I shall let you process this. Once you are ready, I’ll see you at breakfast.” She tried to place a kiss upon his cheek, but he pulled away from her. Without any more words, the tiefling left the room.

I felt the once undead organ in my chest beat rapidly in anger as I stepped into the doorway of the closet and dropped my concentration on the spell. A look of pure anger must’ve been on my face because Astarion’s face softened once he noticed my presence.

“Please tell me that I will have the luxury of taking her life.” I growled quietly. “I will admit the plan was well thought out to pin the blood on me, but they must have mistaken you for a fool.” Astarion quietly walked over to me and gave me a sinister smile.

“They have no idea who they are messing with.” He whispered as his fingers interlaced with mine.

“Speaking of, the chef plans to serve you the poison this morning with breakfast.” I watched a fire of anger flare within the crimson orbs staring at me. “I plan to switch your wine glass with hers.” The fingers of my other hand walked up Astarion’s chest. “Once she is taken care of, I will thoroughly enjoy watching you punish the chef for his misdeeds.” I purred into the pointed ear of my lover, whose arm gripped me closer to him. “With those two gone, perhaps we shall begin our plans to rule Baldur’s Gate, so no one shall threaten us again?” Sparkling eyes of amusement met mine as he gave me a breathtaking smile.

“My, my, who would’ve thought turning you into a true vampire would be such a turn on.” His voice was full of admiration. “And how much more fun our lives would be.” We shared a knowing smirk between us.

“Let’s go take care of these vermin.”

#astarion imagine #astarion x reader #baldursgate3 #baldursgate3imagine #ascended astarion #the promise of eternity

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outofangband · 6 months

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Rambling thoughts about the public nature of Aerin’s ordeal in The Children of Húrin versus the private, hidden nature of her ordeal in BoLT and then I started rambling about other things

cw: abuse, forced marriage, etc

Also it’s six am and I got up an hour ago for work so this might not be entirely coherent

in the Narn Aerin’s suffering is public and there’s another element of anguish and shame there.

She is taken as the wife of the incomer who has declared himself lord of Dor-Lómin (though fittingly, poignantly, Brodda himself is the only to declare that there is no lady of Dor-lómin…)

Everyone knows who Brodda is and why he’s chosen Aerin and her position as his wife might be understood to be unwilling by her people and even by his but it’s still understood. then at the same time there are those who call her lucky…that line that she was taken as a wife and not a slave (though let’s be honest…Brodda’s distinction between the two is dubious at BEST, I actually have another post I’m working on about marriage in Tolkien and how his views of it are different…and similar to both other male characters and historical beliefs). Honestly, by “a wife and not a slave” I read that the primary difference is that Aerin is required more to act as though there is a meaningful difference, not that there is one

It’s not like the others are allowed to express their opinions or discontent but Aerin especially must sit beside Brodda, must act and appear how he wants.

And then as I talked about here there is the inherent trauma of how intimately she must know him, even just in ways to keep herself safe.

Aerin has slightly more mobility and maybe if Brodda is possessive enough or his men think he is then she might be spared the worst of abuse from others though frankly I don’t think he cares all that much and if anything happened, he’d punish Aerin, not whoever hurt her.

From what we get from Sador, her leadership among her people and her using this to feed and shelter some of them is largely unknown to Brodda whether because he doesn’t notice or he doesn’t care. It’s not necessarily something she’s been allowed.

And any ‘privileges’ she has aren’t meaningful. We know she was beaten for giving food to Morwen and that she might be hurt if she was caught talking to travelers. She doesn’t have any real freedom and even if she’s not subjected to manual labor like some of the slaves she’s not living comfortably. (This does not even get into the elements of sexual violence of course, I have another post about those elements here so I won’t go into that now. I think “took by force to be his wife” functions as a euphemism for rape and describes that Aerin is being forced to act in a social and personal role, defined by Brodda and re-enforced by everyone else. Does that make sense?)

We don’t see much of her actual interactions with Brodda but I’m always struck by his anger at Túrin for continuing to push Aerin to speak about Morwen. (Obviously) this is not because Aerin is uncomfortable and afraid, she is uncomfortable and afraid because of him, but because his perception of his ownership of her is so absolute that Túrin “gainsaying” Aerin when she repeats the narrative she thinks Brodda wants is viewed as an insult to him. He’s obviously angry about any of this being brought up, it’s very clear that he views Aerin’s aiding Morwen as another insult, another act of undermining his ownership of her (as I rambled a lot about on this post) and him and Aerin know as well as Túrin that she’s lying…there is no doubt in my mind that she would have been hurt very badly for this afterwards. But also her lie is of the narrative he wants and Túrin challenging it challenges him. Even as her terror is so palpable she is almost invisible in some ways to at least some of those at the table

(It’s also worth noting that Brodda wrongly states that Morwen was his thrall. He’s still very clearly angry that he never had the chance to enact violence against her but that’s for later…trust me I have a post on this too)

Also, was making a darker post about Aerin but while I was writing it I was just thinking about the ways Sador describes her. The almost reverence he has. I think there was some resentment and victim blaming from some of the other captives* I think for the most part people felt compassion for her and even respected her especially when she was able to do more to help the others. That’s what Sador seems to imply. And that’s so important to me!!! Aerin is genuinely loved by her people and they do not blame her for what Brodda does, to her or to them. They don’t seem to expect her to try and temper him. Sador describes Brodda as her husband ‘by need’ but other than that it’s understood that she’s a captive like they are. It sort of goes into my thoughts about Aerin’s kindness as defiance in the face of both personal and cultural violence

Also to be clear, Aerin deserves compassion and respect regardless of her ability to help her people. None of the victim blaming or just generally unfair sentiments she endured is fair. I talked about Aerin’s trying to help her people even at her own cost and their respect for her for this because I think it’s such a compelling and painful aspect of her character and story and I do think that it changed or at least influenced how she was viewed by her people, whether or not that’s fair. but yeah I love and respect Aerin so much I just wanted to be clear that even if there was nothing she could do for them she would still deserve to be viewed with compassion. I think I’ve primarily talked about the conflicts and blame she faced in my post about her extended family and in part of great was the company. It makes me very sad and I find the dynamics of environments of coercive control, whether occupied Hithlum or Angband, interesting to explore

Anyways I will make a follow up post about BoLT and this soon because the similarities and differences are fascinating.

#the silmarillion #the children of húrin #Aerin #musing and meta #Morwen #Sador #cw abuse #occupation of Hithlum

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kingofbodyrolls · 8 months

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Coming Home (m) | PJM | Epilogue

← previous | s.masterlist | s.masterlist |

Summary: When your best friend, Park Jimin, who you’ve had a crush on since forever, suggests you stay at his house to heal and find yourself again after a series of traumatizing events had haunted you for years, you don’t hesitate to accept. Within those walls, a safe haven is woven, where wounds can heal and memories find release. As he nurtures your shattered spirit, an unexpected intimacy unfurls, leaving the fragile barrier between friendship and deeper emotions in question - can you keep your feelings hidden?

Pairing: Jimin x reader (female, “Y/N”)

Other characters: Yoongi, Hoseok, Seokjin, OC (female, she is the therapist) and another OC (male, he is the perp). Also readers parents and mention of Jimin's.

AUs: Best friends to lovers!au, detective!jimin Genres/themes: thriller/dark, yandere vibes, slice of life, healing after trauma, angst, smut and fluff.

Rating: mature/explicit/R18

Word count: 5,3K

Disclaimer: I do not own BTS or know them personally and this work of fiction is purely fictional and for entertainment purposes only. The actions and personalities described in the story do not reflect those of BTS— it’s just fiction. Also, if you would kindly read the tags/warnings before reading, that would be lovely: and if you don’t like whatever is described in the tags, just hit return and find something else to read. Thank you 🌸

Warnings: Explicit smut, kissing, cuddling/spooning, unprotected penetrative sex (stay safe - OC’s on the pill), slice of life, healing after trauma, BIG feelings, protective, fluffy and sweet Jimin, he is just soft and loving 🥹

Disclaimer about warnings: I know nothing about sexual or physical abuse (I only know psychological because I experienced that, not in a sexual context though). This story is fiction, I do not mean to say that this is how one would go through their emotions or handle this situation. This is a delicate and fragile subject, so proceed with caution. I also know nothing about police work or the work in emergency/hospitals.

Also, I don’t own BTS or know how they would act in a similar situation. This story is purely fiction, a fragment of my imagination. They just inspire me so much 💜

Cross posted to AO3!

Taglist: @thelilbutifulthings

With the capture of the perpetrator, the weight that had loomed over your life like a persistent shadow should have been lifted.

The threat was gone, the danger subsided, yet an inexplicable unease still clung to your heart. The ordeal had left scars that extended beyond the physical realm, and even though the world appeared safer now, the echoes of fear lingered in the corners of your mind.

Stepping out into the public domain did offer some relief, as the open spaces and bustling crowds served as a reminder that you were no longer being watched, that the eyes of the perpetrator were no longer fixated on you.

But the invisible chains of anxiety and trauma proved harder to break, leaving you struggling to embrace the newfound freedom.

In the midst of this turmoil, Jimin had emerged as your steadfast pillar of support. His love for you seemed to shine even brighter in the aftermath of the ordeal.

Every gesture, no matter how small, was a testament to his devotion. His warm embraces provided solace, his soothing words acted as a healing balm, and his unwavering presence brought a sense of security that you craved.

As you navigated the uncharted waters of recovery, his actions spoke volumes. His insistence on making you feel cherished and safeguarded demonstrated his commitment to helping you heal, piece by piece.

Even the suggestion of a couple’s retreat - a space where both of you could disconnect from the outside world and reconnect with each other, reflected his understanding of your needs.

The decision to book the retreat for the upcoming weekend became a glimmer of anticipation, a beacon of hope that promised serenity and a fresh start. Jimin’s thoughtfulness in organizing this escape showcased his unwavering love, a reminder that he was by your side, willing to venture into the journey of healing together.

As the days passed and the retreat started to blossom within you, fueled by the love that Jimin showered upon you - a love that had the power to mend even the deepest wounds of the soul.

In your psychologist’s cozy office, the safe space where you could unravel your thoughts without reservation, you found yourself grappling with emotions that seemed stubbornly persistent.

The sessions had become a refuge, a place where you could articulate the turmoil within you, even if the words felt inadequate to capture the complexity of your feelings.

Sitting across from Chin-Sun, you hesitated for a moment before finally expressing your confusion. The logical part of you recognized that the ordeal was over, that you were safe now, yet the emotion remnants refused to be neatly tidied away.

You confessed your longing to feel fine and restored, a desire that contrasted starkly with the lingering unease. Her response, though comforting, carried the weight of time.

The promise of gradual healing felt like a distant horizon, a place you yearned to reach but couldn’t see clearly just yet. As the words left her lips, you absorbed the truth that recovery wasn’t a linear path, that it entailed both patience and persistence.

But even amid the uncertainty, there was a glimmer of hope. Her assurance that, in time, you would regain a sense of ease in your day-to-day life acted as a reassuring beacon. The thought of stepping into a future where anxiety no longer held dominion over your every thought was a vision you clung to, a vision that fueled your determination to push through the lingering discomfort.

With each session, you uncover layers of emotions, gradually unraveling the complex web woven by trauma and fear. Chin-Sun’s words became a steady guide, reminding you that the path to healing was as unique as your journey through the ordeal itself.

And as you navigated the ebb and flow of your emotions under her guidance, you found solace in the belief that, with time and the support of those who cared for you, the shadows of anxiety and fear would eventually give way to sunlight of healing and newfound tranquility.

As the weekend unfolds, you find yourself at the threshold of a new chapter in your journey to healing. The anticipation of the couple’s retreat was a mix of excitement and trepidation, a concoction of emotions that accompanies you on the drive towards the coastal haven that awaits.

The journey itself was a symphony of melodies and laughter, a playlist carefully curated to match the journey’s rhythm.

Jimin’s lighthearted banter wove a tapestry of comfort, a reminder that you were embarking on this adventure together. The miles between your home and the retreat melts away beneath the wheels of the car, replaced by a sense of togetherness that only grows with every passing moment.

And then, as the tires crunches on the gravel path leading to the retreat, a new vista opens before you. The sun slowly begins to paint the sky with hues of gold and tangerine, mirroring the warmth that emanates from within.

As you checked in and received the key to your room, the promise of respite beckoned like a soft melody.

Entering your cozy haven for the weekend, you were met with a sense of comfort and sanctuary. The king-sized bed, invitingly adorned with soft linens, seemed to promise restful nights.

The windows framing the beach were like portals to serenity, the sound of waves a gentle lullaby that seemed to whisper tales of healing and renewal.

The en-suite bathroom, the closet, and even the mini fridge held a promise of convenience, ensuring that your stay would be as enjoyable as it was peaceful.

The allure of the beach was irresistible, beckoning like an old friend ready to envelop you in its soothing embrace. The soft rhythm of waves breaking against the shore was a symphony that set the pace for the evening.

Hand in hand with Jimin, you venture onto the sandy canvas, your spirits lifted by the promise of carefree moments ahead. The sun’s warm caress was a gentle reminder of the joys of summer, and as you settled down, the grains of sand molding to the contours of your bodies, a sense of tranquility settled over you.

The world beyond the shoreline seemed distant, leaving only the two of you in this intimate cocoon of relaxation.

As you lay back, the ocean breeze carrying whispers of salt and adventure, you find yourself immersed in a gentle conversation. Stories flow like tributaries merging into a river of memories, laughter punctuating every anecdote. High school escapades and college misadventures were shared like treasures, creating a tapestry of moments that bound you even closer.

The sound of the waves seemed to echo the rhythm of your hearts, each beat a testament to the connection you share.

As the sun begins its descent towards the horizon, casting long shadows along the shore, you exchange glances that speak volumes.

The love and comfort that you had found in each other’s company was a treasure that had been unearthed, a gift that was now a part of your journey. And as the waves continued their eternal dance, you knew that this day, this time together, would forever remain etched in your hearts.

The echoes of laughter and the gentle crash of waves followed you as you left the beach behind, moving towards a quaint local restaurant nestled in the heart of the town. Its welcoming lights flickered like fireflies in the evening sky, drawing you closer to a promise of culinary delights and shared moments.

The restaurant’s ambiance was a blend of cozy charm and a touch of rustic elegance setting the stage for a memorable evening. The aroma of freshly prepared dishes wafted through the air, tickling your senses and stirring an eager anticipation within.

As you settle into your seats, the soft glow of candlelight illuminated the menus before you. Each bite is a symphony of flavors, a fusion of artistry and passion that delights your taste buds.

The richness of the red wine compliments the meal, enhancing the experience with its velvety notes. Between mouthfuls, you exchange glances that speak a language all you own; a silent acknowledgement of the shared contentment that fills the space between you.

The evening air is crisp and invigorating as you step out of the restaurant, your fingers instinctively entwine as if unwilling to let go og the connection that binds you.

The town is alive with the gentle hum of its nightlife, a backdrop to your leisurely stroll back to the retreat. The world around you seems to fade into the background, leaving only the two of you, cocooned in a bubble of timelessness.

With every step, every shared smile and whispered word, the love you felt for each other seems to amplify. The moon cast its silvery glow, lighting your path and lending an ethereal quality to the night.

The way your breaths seem to synchronize, the way your fingers interlock, it is as if the universe is orchestrating this moment, recognizing the profound bond that you share.

As you enter your room, the echoes of the day’s laughter and shared stories seem to linger in the air. The curtains dance with the gentle breeze, casting intricate patterns on the floor, a reflection of the intricate journey you had undertaken together.

And as you settle in for the night, the soft rustle of sheets mingling with the beating of your hearts, a reminder that in each other’s arms, you had found a safe haven, a place where your eternal love could flourish.

The room was silent except for the sound of your beating hearts. You sigh and feel Jimin press his warm body into yours, spooning you tighter.

You relish in his hold and let out a soft moan, while you try to calm your racing thoughts. You feel so loved here in his loving embrace, and you realize that you want him like this for the rest of your life.

He presses his crotch into your ass, and you feel his growing erection grind into you.

A deep groan escapes his soft plush lips as he rolls his hips against you sensually. Wetness begins to pool between your legs and you squirm as an involuntary moan leaves your mouth. Fuck.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks innocently in a teasing voice, giving another delightful roll of his hips to your ass. Fuck, the duality of this man, you think as you chuckle and moan in frustration.

“Not with that hard dick of yours grinding on my ass,” he moves to hover over you, looking you straight in the eyes, his breath already ragged.

He leans down, locks your lips in a tender and sweet kiss and then makes a slow and forceful grind with his dick to your clothed cunt. In search of release you arch your back and moan his name hungry for more.

“Take this off,” he tugs at your shirt, well his shirt.

You shimmy into a seating position, as he sits on his knees and helps you get rid of the offending piece of clothing, leaving your naked breasts for his eyes to soak in.

“Fuck, you’re so gorgeous,” he sucks in a breath and licks his lips teasingly.

You feel more of your arousal soaking your panties at his pleasing words.

He pushes you lightly down again with a smirk lacing his lips as he looks just about ready to devour you whole. “You’re not that bad yourself” you laugh wholeheartedly, catching his attention as your boobs jiggle.

He makes another grind to your pussy and your chuckles are immediately replaced with a growl of his pretty name. He lets out a pleased sigh and smiles, before he surges down to your neck, sucking lightly.

Nipping at your neck, he leaves small marks in his wake as he slowly descends down your tingling body.

He kisses your collarbones, licking his way down to one of your breasts. He licks around it playfully, before he captures your hardened nipple in a swift motion. He teaks and pinches, making you moan the prettiest noises as his dick twitches inside his boxers.

For a minute or maybe two, he played with your tits, squeezing them together, flicking and sucking.

“Jimin, ah!” you whimper as you run your hands over his tensed abdomen. He kisses down your soft stomach, venturing down to your throbbing pussy. You feel his hot breath on your clothed core, as he licks his lips before sliding your panties off.

“So fucking wet for me, huh?” his eyes are sinful, as he checks out your cunt, before diving in.

He pinches your clit with his thumb and index finger, “So swollen I can almost feel it pulsating.”

With his pretty, plush lips he wraps around your clit and sucks it into his mouth, twirling his tongue around it, while his hands slip under your ass to hold you closer to his face. Then he moves down to your slit, fingers stretching you open as he laps at your folds. You feel delirious, your juices slowly running down.

Your hands find his beautiful head of soft black hair, and you pull on it as he eats you out like a man starved.

Slurping noises fill the room, making your pussy clench in anticipation.

The more he sucked or touched you, the wetter you grew. Removing his tongue from your core, he sits up, appreciating the view. By the lack of contact you let out a frustrating growl.

But you don’t have to wait long before he inserts his index finger into your throbbing cunt. You hiss and clench at the contact, but relax the following second as he slowly starts pushing his digit in and out of your pussy.

With your wetness, the glide is easy and it doesn’t take long before you are used to the intrusion of his finger inside of you. His one finger reaches deep inside your cunt and you moan in pleasure as he watches you close your eyes, throwing your head back into the mattress.

You begin to feel the pleasure building in your stomach and for a moment your toes begin to curl, “Shit! I’m almost there, Jimin–”

The second finger he adds, gives you a slight stretch and you feel your breath hitch. He hums, pleased, as he starts pumping his index and middle finger in and out of you, slow at first.

As you moan his name and curses leave your mouth unabashedly, he picks up the pace more as your noises spurs him on. It’s not long before he adds a third finger, and you arch your back at the stretch, but Jimin places his other hand on your stomach, pressing you down to the bed.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” you whimper as he begins to fuck you harder, fingers slipping in and out of you. He scissors you open, pulling out and searching for your sweet spot when pushing in again.

As the pads of his fingers tickle and press on your sweet spot, you mewl.

He dives back down to your clit, starts sucking as he fingers you at a fast pace.

You feel your body tighten, your vision going blurry and you close your eyes as you come undone to a moan that sounds awfully like his name. You huff for breath, as Jimin keeps lapping and fucking you slowly with his fingers, helping you ride out your orgasm.

“Fuck” he growls as he removes his fingers, taking them up to his mouth, licking each digit dry of your slick juices.

You leave out a dragged out groan, “Fuck, that’s hot” and feel your pussy throbbing again.

He removes his boxers, freeing his raging hard cock, giving it a stroke as he throws his head back while letting out a soft moan of your name.

You lick your lips and reach a hand out to touch his dick, but he swats it away, “Sorry babe, but I desperately need to be inside you. You can suck me off later.”

You don’t want to be one to complain, when you already feel a new flood of arousal drenching your pussy, mixing with your earlier orgasm and his saliva. He gives his dick another stroke, as he looks deeply into your lust filled eyes.

When he braces your folds, you gulp and let out a delicious moan. As he drags himself further into your warm hole, he pants in your ear. You shudder and roll your eyes back as his lustful sounds send tingles down your spine.

You grab his biceps, as he pushes himself all the way in, making you feel so fucking full.

“It’s so good, Jimin!” you whimper as your hands clench tighter around his biceps. As he drags his cock out and then back in, he hisses in pleasure.

“Damn, you still feel so tight” he growls as he sets a slow pace, fucking you tenderly, as he looks at you with hooded eyes.

“Faster, Jimin,” you pant as he picks up the pace and starts fucking you faster.

He drags himself out, only to push back into you with so much force you feel his hips dip into your ass. You feel delirious as he begins to hit your g-spot repeatedly, making you breathe like you just ran a marathon.

Sweat beads at your hairline, and you notice sweat dripping off Jimin's handsome face. He pants and moans your name, as he fucks you deeply.

“Fuck, Jimin! I, I-” you begin, panting hurriedly. He slows the pace down for you to make a coherent sentence.

“Do you want to come on my ass?” you manage to ask him, albeit shyly as you feel your face turn beet red as a blush settles.

He stops his motions for a second, looking at you endearingly and he chuckles at your sudden shyness, “Fuck yeah”.

He pulls out of you, and for a moment you feel so empty, as you turn around, on your hands and knees, stinking your ass in the air towards his slick cock.

You push yourself back, with one of Jimin’s hands on your ass and the other on his dick, he guides you back onto it.

He enters your pussy without much discomfort, but you do feel a slight stretch at the new angle and you can already feel him hit inside you deeper.

Your head falls down on the bed, droll pooling at your mouth and running down to the sheets. He picks up at a fast pace right from the get go, hands on each side of your ass, as he thrusts deep inside you.

“Jimin, I’m coming!” you moan his name as you feel the knot in your stomach about to snap. With one hand, he finds your clit, pinches it hard, then rubs it in circular motions.

He alternates between quick and slow, and it's making you go crazy. Your chest moves up and down, as you heave for air, face pressed to the sheets and hands clenching around it.

You feel your vision blur as your orgasm overtakes you moments after he begins to touch your clit. Your tight walls close around him and he feel his own orgasm tethering dangerously close and he knows that if he wants to cum on your ass, he has to fucking pull out now.

But he wants to stay a bit longer inside your warm pulsating cave, as you ride out your orgasm.

“Fuck!” he yells as he pounds into you and then he pulls out and strokes his dick and releases his semen on your ass.

You jiggle your ass teasingly, and he grabs some of your soft flesh, squeezing it in his hand as he gasps for air as he rests his throbbing dick on your ass.

You feel so utterly tired that you collapse on the bed, so out of breath. Your body feels tingly and spent. You turn to your side as you watch Jimin follow suit and fall down beside you, with his back to you.

“You have a tattoo?!” you almost shriek, but your sore throat makes it sound more like a whimper than anything else. He chuckles and nods his head into the bed.

Why haven’t you seen that before?

Instinctively, your fingers begin to trace the contours of his spine, his delicate tattoo etched into his skin like a secret map. Three moon phases line down his spine, and they almost glisten under the soft ambient light of the room.

“Do the moons mean anything significant?” you ask as your fingers keep tracing the ink.

“Yeah. They each represent a meaningful chapter in my life” he turns around to face you, and captures you in a chaste kiss.

“Turn back, I wanna look at it again” you say as you poke him in the shoulder to get him to move around. As he turns his back to you again, your touch lingers over the tattoo, the significance of its design tugging at the strings of your heart.

You trace the first moon, on the top of his spine, closest to his neck. “That one is of the moon’s phase the very first day we met in kindergarten,” a nostalgic smile tugs at your lips, as you trace the crescent of that first moon, your minds remembering your beginnings, the days of shared crayons and laughter in the playground.

Your hand then travels to the second moon, more pronounced and radiant.

“That one is of the moon’s phase on the day in high school I realized I had feelings for you,” a rush of memories floods your mind, the playful teasing and stolen glances that had marked the awakening of something deeper.

The tattoo seemed to capture the essence of that realization - a confession of feelings that had simmered beneath the surface.

And finally, your fingers land on the third moon phase adorning his skin.

“That's the day that I became a police officer”. It represents the day he had chosen a path of courage and responsibility. The weight of that decision, the commitment to safeguarding others, was etched into the ink, a mark of dedication that mirrors the love he has for you.

As you traced the contours of each moon, it was as if you were tracing the trajectory of your lives, the shared milestones that had shaped you into the people you were today.

The tattoo was more than an artwork; it was a testament to the depth of your connection, a tangible embodiment of the love that had blossomed against all odds. The moon phases held a mirror to your journey, each one reflecting a facet of your shared history.

The innocence, the awakening, the unwavering devotion - they were all there, etched in indelible ink. And as you let your fingers linger, you realize that this tattoo is part of him, a part of you, and a part of the beautiful tapestry you have woven together.

It’s a reminder that even in the darkest of nights, the moon still shone, casting its gentle light on the path you have and will walk together.

Amid the gentle lapping of the waves and the soft rustle of the night breeze, an unspoken tenderness envelops you both.

The atmosphere seems to shimmer with an almost palpable sense of affection, your fingers intertwining and tracing his moon tattoos as the conversation flows effortlessly. With each word exchanged, the layers of your relationship are peeled back, revealing vulnerabilities, dreams, and reflections.

The notion of having done things backward danced into the conversation, a thought that had crossed your mind more than once. You share how you felt that maybe, in another universe, you could have come together sooner, avoiding the pain and suffering that had marked your past. It is a sentiment laced with regret, a tinge of what-ifs.

Jimin’s warm gaze, however, held a different perspective. He listens to your words, his thumb brushing tenderly over your hand as he prepares to share his thoughts.

“You know,” he begins softly, “I believe that every step we took, every twist and turn, brought us to this exact moment. Maybe it wasn’t the path we expected, but it was the one we needed.”

You feel tears pool at your waterline by his soft spoken words.

His words resonate with a quote of wisdom, a profound understanding that speaks to the intricacies of your bond.

He goes on, his voice carrying the weight of his emotions, “And as much as I wish you didn’t have to endure what you did, I also believe that it’s part of what makes you so incredibly strong, so resilient. It’s a testament to your spirit.”

With every syllable, he seems to weave a tapestry of reassurance, affirming that even the darkest chapters have a role to play in shaping your love story.

And then, in a moment that leaves you truly speechless, he produces a ring, a delicate masterpiece of metal and gemstone that glints in the low lit bedroom.

Your heart skips a beat, as he looks into your eyes, his voice steady and brimming with affection.

“Y/N, you’ve shown me a love I never knew was possible. You’ve been my rock, my partner and my best friend. Will you marry me?” the words hung in the air, the weight of his proposal settling between you like a cherished promise.

Tears gather in the corners of your eyes, shimmering like dewdrops under the moonlight.

A surge of emotions overwhelm you, and as you nod, words escaping you, the tears finally spill over.

You reach out to him, your arms wrapping around his naked body in an embrace that holds the universe of your feelings.

The kiss that follows feels like a culmination of every shared laughter, every tear wiped away, every hurdle overcome.

The ring on your finger feels like a circle binding your past, present, and future together, a symbol of the love that had weathered trials and emerged stronger.

And in the quiet harmony of your hearts, you both know that this is just the beginning of a new chapter - one where your love, tested and unwavering, would continue to grow and flourish.

The following day greets you with a sense of tranquility, a feeling that seems to linger from the beautiful moments shared the previous evening. The sun baths the world in a gentle glow, casting a warm invitation to embrace the day ahead.

You and Jimin had decided that today was all about relaxation and release.

The tension that had built up over months, the weight of past trauma and newfound joys, all deserved their own moment of acknowledgement and release.

The luxurious spa you enter seems like a haven of serenity, a space designed to envelop you in a cocoon of calmness. Soft, ambient music hummed in the background, and the soothing scent of essential oils filled the air.

You exchange knowing glances as you change into plush robes, ready to let go of the worries that had become far too familiar.

The skilled hands of the massage therapist work their magic, kneading away the knots of stress and worry that had taken residence in your bodies.

With each press and stroke, you could feel the tension slowly dissipating, replaced by a sense of ease that was long overdue. As you lay side by side, lost in the world of tranquility, you could almost hear the sigh of relief echoing between you.

It is as if the very act of being pampered is a balm for your souls, a way to acknowledge the challenges you’d faced and celebrate the triumphs you’d achieved.

After the massages, you emerge from the spa like new beings, your steps lighter, your expressions more serene.

As you make your way back to the retreat, a quiet understanding passes between you. The intensity of your experiences had deepened the bond between you, making the simplest moments feel profound.

With the gentle caress of the breeze on your skin, you settle down on the patio of your suite, where a table is set for a delightful lunch.

The azure expanse of the ocean stretched out before you, its rhythmic waves serving as a reminder of the ebb and flow of life itself. The delicate clinking of glasses and the murmur of the waves intertwine in perfect harmony, creating a symphony of relaxation. Plates adorned with delicious dishes are placed before you, a feast that mirrored the nourishment your relationship had provided in recent times.

As you savor each bite, the laughter that punctuates your conversations feels like a melodic thread, weaving through the tapestry of your shared experiences. You speak of dreams, future plans, and even the silliest stories from your childhoods.

In a quiet corner of the world, where the whispers of the ocean and the rustling leaves seem to compose a symphony just for you two, Jimin’s heartfelt words weave a spell that transcends time itself.

As you sit together on the beach, your fingers entwine and your gazes lock, the weight of the past mingle with the promise of the future. Jimin’s eyes hold a mixture of emotions, a kaleidoscope of regret, determination, and most importantly, an unwavering love that has stood the test of time.

His voice, soft yet resolute, carries his feelings to your heart with each word.

“Y/N, I’ve loved you all this time,” he confesses again, his eyes glistening with unshed tears as he looks at the ring dorning your finger.

“You are the love of my life, the one who’s been etched into my heart since that very first moment we met” there is a tremor in his voice, a vulnerability that lays bare his soul.

The frustration of not finding you sooner, of not being able to protect you from the darkness that had clouded your life, weighed heavily on him.

He isn’t just apologizing for the lost years; he is acknowledging the pain he’d felt for every moment he couldn’t be by your side.

“I regret every moment we were apart, every day I couldn’t hold you close,” he continues, his voice gaining strength as he channels his emotions into his words.

“But from now on, I promise you, Y/N. I will cherish you like a precious gem, protect you like a shield, and love you with everything I am.”

With each promise that flows from his lips, it is as if the very atmosphere resonates with his sincerity. The waves seem to whisper agreements, and the wind carries his vows to the universe.

This moment, under the expanse of the sky and the watchful gaze of the stars, is a testament to the unbreakable bond that had weathered the storms of life.

As if Jimin’s declaration hung in the air, you can feel the power of his love enveloping you, creating a cocoon of warmth and safety.

Tears well up in your eyes, not out of sorrow, but out of the overwhelming beauty for this moment. You reach out, cupping his face in your hands, your thumbs wiping away the stray tear that has escaped from his eyes.

“I believe you,” you whisper, your voice a gentle affirmation that echoes the depths of your own feelings. “And I love you too, Jimin. With all my heart.”

His smile, a mixture of relief and pure joy, is like a sunrise after a long night. He leans in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that carries the weight of the past and the promise of the future.

And as your lips touch, it is as if time itself paused, giving you both the chance to savor this moment; a moment that holds the culmination of a love that had traveled through time and adversity to finally find its place in the sun.

Author's note: Gosh, I just had to add Jimin’s moon tattoos (in a variation, I know) into the story. Because damn, he looks good with those beautiful moons on his back 🥹 Also, I hope the story wasn’t complete shit - I did enjoy writing it and have more planned (ones with lighter themes. Anyone up for a roadtrip/camping trip with Yoongi? 😝).

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