— 𝓜𝒂𝒚𝒂 ; ♡

╰┈➤ eng / spa / fre ; ♌️

⌗ shameless, måneskin, euphoria, rock, anime, manga, video games, eyeliner, fashion, nails ᥫ᭡

⋆˙⟡ i have written for several fandoms (most about bluelock and tokyo rev) listed in the tags. if you are looking for a specific character, try searching more precisely in the search bar !!

A year ago, you had just left university, holding a degree you had worked so hard to earn because of the limited financial support from your parents

Six months ago, after a sleepless night spent driving around the city looking for your boyfriend, you finally found out whose lipstick had stained the collar of his shirt

Today, your face is on screens all around the world after the engagement announcement that KAISER MICHEAL personally posted online across all of his accounts

How does someone’s social status change so quickly?

Everything becomes much easier when there’s a marriage of convenience involved, especially when the groom happens to be one of the world’s top eleven players in his sport. As it happens, this time you were the lucky one after so much pain

“Hands where I can see them” you say, lying back with your spine comfortably resting against the armrest of the couch. You open your mouth to speak, but it snaps shut almost automatically when his hand comes to rest directly over your tit. It’s a light touch, imperceptible, but enough to make your nipple quiver slightly. You lower your face enough to meet Michael’s gaze, as he lies with his chin against your navel. Although his other hand is occupied, his left hand tightens against the lower part of your torso “You can see them”

He’s a big bastard, a bit like the team he brags about. He is aware of it, because he was the first one to set boundaries when talks of a fake marriage began. Yet here he is, with absolutely no shame, breaking the first rule he had set: no physical contact, not even in front of the cameras for the first few months. You raise an eyebrow “You know that’s not what I mean” you complain, trying to move his hand away from your tit, only to be met with an even firmer grip. The corners of his mouth lift slightly, almost challenging “You’re breaking the rules I had set, the one where I say I don’t want arguments because I’m always right” he says, applying slight pressure

After discovering your cheating partner, you were the one who left the house you had previously shared with your ex. Partly by personal choice, partly because you hated the idea of having to sleep in a bed that had probably witnessed who knows what. There was also a part of you that had made this choice because, for the first time in your life, you wanted to have something of your own without having to struggle for it. After working so hard for that degree and for that shitty relationship, you simply wanted to leave in the easiest way possible

Better to walk away than argue, you had told yourself

So, a week later, you found yourself in the most important and expensive nightclub in your city. The few money your ex had sent you to get back home, you had used to pay for the entrance and some drinks at the club. Completely drunk after not even a few hours, you found yourself lying on the couch in one of the VIP sections of the club. Some people told you that you started vomiting, others said that someone was bothering you and you ran away, ending up there in the private section

As fate would have it, that VIP section was occupied that night by Michael Kaiser himself. Brought there against his will after a draw by his team, he ended up there at the same time you did

“Shut up” you say, bringing your hand to his cheek, though you sigh “The announcement has gone around the world. I’ve never seen my face so many times in a row just by opening social media” you continue, even though you don’t know whether to be happy about it or slightly scared. Kaiser lets the other hand, which had previously been on your torso, slide under your shirt as well, reaching the edge of your pretty bra “Not that you’ve ever had this much popularity in the past” he teases, almost like a joke that carries a hint of truth

You would like to say that he’s wrong, but he’s right. From being a complete nobody, in less than six months you became the finally revealed face of Kaiser’s soon-to-be wife. A title that women, and even men, would cross continents for. A title that comes with money, something you have never had in your life

Small kisses begin along the edge of your panties, but not small enough to keep you serious. You involuntarily squeeze your legs slightly, consequently also tightening around that part of Kaiser’s body pressed against you. “You’re sweaty” you complain, not really to stop him but more to not seem so easy. His lips rise, turning into a grin “You should be grateful that I’m sweaty, that’s why you can have whatever you want” he says, his hand that comes to give a squeeze to your covered nipple

You shiver, tilting your head. Since you made the choice to start having everything without putting in the effort, you have become someone so simple. Simple enough to end up in his car that night at the club, and simple enough to stay around him whenever there was a chance. Even simple enough to accept his proposal, one he didn’t really want but was pushed more by his personal manager. And yet, here you are

Who, besides you, can brag about getting fucked by Kaiser?

You press your lips lightly, closing your eyes when his mouth leaves a kiss against your covered pussy. You hate this man, you hate him and hate how, since that night, you have never been able to escape the millions of opportunities he has given you in exchange for a few nights together. Nights that are now becoming heavier, because genuinely none of the rules that were set have been respected by either side

Nights that no longer feel like they were given just for that moment of adrenaline, but that sound like those of two people in love. Or at least, that’s what you feel since some time

ZULIO ZULIOOO ZULIOOO

ও sae itoshi x fem!reader ; clearly inspired by the movie "tangled" that is my favorite since i was a baby ᥫ᭡

It wasn’t normal. It absolutely wasn’t normal.

Although the morning had started well, with pleasant sunlight pouring into the room through the large window, you had actually had a night full of nightmares. Not particularly terrible nightmares, things like getting stuck for hours on the hook your mother used to climb up and down the tower, but strange and depressing enough not to let you sleep for even a second.

You thought the sun today would improve your morning at least a little, and if you were lucky enough, your mother would come back with your favorite berries. The sun had actually made you get out of bed with a little more enthusiasm, but paradoxically it had also put you in this abnormal situation.

You had simply wanted to open the tower’s main window to make the room even brighter, however, when you leaned out you clearly saw someone climbing toward you using arrows. You firmly believed he hadn’t seen you leaning out, so focused was he on climbing and not falling, but you?

You had clearly seen him.

And here you were now, holding a frying pan, with a person, actually the first one in your life besides your mother, sitting in front of you, tangled up in your hair. You had never actually seen anyone before, and your mother had always been clear in explaining to you that everyone out there was horrible. This man certainly was too, because what right did he have to enter someone else’s tower? And besides, why would he have that crown in his bag? You knew your mother had all the knowledge in the world in her head, and apparently she was right when she said that people were horrible. Yet, however strange the situation was, everything was now under your control. At least, apparently. Enough for you to breathe a little more calmly.

His hair, unlike yours, was cut short and carefree, a reddish color similar to the one you used to paint the sunrise on the walls. He was clearly a man, physically different from you and your mother, much taller than you had expected from how you had seen him while he was climbing. With your frying pan you had given him a solid blow, and although the concept of death was somewhat foreign to you, for the first few seconds after hitting him you suspected you might have killed him.

Even though you were scared, you checked. He was still clearly breathing, but he hadn’t regained consciousness even after at least half an hour. You sigh, holding the frying pan less tightly in your hands. Everything was under control, even if he regained consciousness, your grip around his body through your hair was far too strong for him to move. You were safe.

At least, that’s what you thought. Suddenly, fear returned to you just in time to see him lift his head and stare at you, frightened. Teal irises were now staring at you, delicate lashes framing the edges of his eyes, which were now intensely scraping at your soul. Something stirs inside you, perhaps from the anxiety of actually meeting new eyes after years and years of absolutely nothing new, or perhaps because there’s something else that you choose to ignore for the moment.

“What…?” the boy whispers, his jaw clenched, probably because of the abrupt awakening or some lingering pain from the earlier blow. Instinctively you point your frying pan at him, taking a step back “Silence!” you shout louder than you actually intended, now gripped by a kind of fear. The boy closes his eyes, trying to move his hands, firmly restrained by your hair. Still somewhat frightened, you watch him struggle in search of freedom, until he finally gives up and looks back into your eyes “Free me” he asks, though to your ears it sounds more like an order. You raise an eyebrow, puzzled “What…?” you ask lowering the pan a little, but he does not relent “I told you to free me” he says, his words laced with an authority he has no right to possess, considering that he is the intruder.

“No…!” you murmur, raising the frying pan again and shocked by his arrogance, which does not waver even after your refusal, in fact, it seems to grow “Who gave you permission to tie me up?” he asks, tilting his head, but you shake yours “And who gave you permission to enter my tower?” you shoot back immediately, though this only seems to irritate him further “That’s what fugitives do” he replies sharply, unable to move but speaking as if he still holds all the authority.

You grow more and more shocked by his behavior, and yet, even though he sounds so arrogant, he doesn’t seem like someone who would physically hurt you. At least not unless he wants another frying pan to his face, a limit you’ve never really set since the moment he entered here. If this boy is a fugitive, what is he running from? And if he is running, that means he comes from outside. He comes from the world hidden beyond these walls that have kept you here for years.

“Where did you put my bag?” he asks, pulling you from your thoughts, and you find yourself shaking your head to clear them away and focus on what’s in front of you “Huh…? Your bag? What do you need it for?” you ask, knowing you placed it just a little behind you. His eyes widen “Give it back. And you should untie me too, thanks” he continues, but it is precisely from his urgency that you realize he truly needs that bag. You take a few steps back, grabbing it without taking your eyes off him. The weight is considerable, and when you dangle it in front of him, something seems to snap inside him. He leans forward, causing the chair to shift slightly. You jump in fright, but from that very gesture, you realize that perhaps you are holding a power even greater than the one your hair already possesses. Your lips part in surprise, then suddenly press together as the thought crosses your mind.

No, that would be too risky. Your mother would come looking for you, and you don’t want to disappoint her or make her angry. However the idea of touching grass, that green expanse that has surrounded you for years, is a desire you have carried within you for as long as you can remember having memories.

How much are you willing to risk to have a crumb of freedom?

You swallow, forcing down a large lump of saliva that holds more worry than liquid. You lower the bag, tying it around your waist, while you don’t dare take your eyes off the boy in front of you, who is now watching you with a certain curiosity “I can give it back to you” you say cautiously, taking a step forward and grabbing a large handful of your hair in your hand, the ones connected to the grip around his neck “But you have to take me with you. From now on” you say, ending up practically in front of him, tilting your face toward his. His eyes lower to look at you from below, until they meet your irises already fixed on him. He clears his throat, showing no sign of discomfort at the closeness, while you’re wondering what on earth you were thinking. Yet, something in the air shifts. You don’t know if it’s the closeness of another person who isn’t your mother, or because you’ve always seen other people’s lips near your cheeks, maybe for a goodnight kiss, but never your own lips. Yet, you feel his breath as if it were your own, and is strange.

“Will you give me back the bag as soon as we get down from this tower?” he asks, and the words brush against your own lips. You shiver, nodding “Only if you let me come with you”

There is silence in the room, soon broken by a sigh. You pull your face back slightly, watching his drop for a few seconds before he lifts it again “We have a deal. But you have to untie me if you want it to happen” he says carefully measuring his words, while inside you an unprecedented surge of adrenaline explodes. Your breath catches in your throat as you let the frying pan fall to the ground and begin to untie him from the mass of hair that has kept him pinned. You are disobeying, yet why does it feel more like a reward than a punishment?

As you remove the last layer of hair, you take a step back, just enough to let him stand up. The boy frees himself from the final strands around his body, and when he finally rises, you realize you hadn’t truly registered the height difference between you. You watch him brush dust from his shoulders, then let his gaze fall back on you “If you need to take anything, do it now. We have to go” he says, heading toward the main window, the same one he came in through earlier. You press your lips together, shaking your head and following him toward the edge of the opening “No. We can go”

You step closer, positioning yourself in front of him so you can tie your hair to the hook that allows your mother to climb up and down whenever she wants. What will she think when she calls for you and you don’t answer? Will she be angry?

You don’t think about it, at least not from the moment his hands wrap around your waist. You look up, embarrassed, while he seems unfazed as he sits you and him on the edge of the window, your legs dangling into the void “I think you need to hold me” he says, while you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck as he launches himself into the void. With one hand firmly along your back, leaving you pressed against him, and the other around the mass of your hair, you both plunge into the void. The jump keeps you anchored to him, even if it lasts far less than you had expected. You also expected him to let go, but instead he held you tighter than he normally should have. The sensation of emptiness lasts only a few seconds, abruptly replaced by a landing that almost bounces.

Still held close to him, the hand that had been gripping your hair to lower both of you down, is now behind your knee. You lift your gaze timidly, noticing how the tower is now above you, no longer beneath your feet. Your lips part slightly, revealing an immense expanse of green stretching out before your eyes.

“Your hair might come in handy, now that I think about it” the boy’s voice says, making you lift your gaze toward him, though he still hasn’t let you go. You feel your feet still dangling as his hand shifts from the upper part of your back to the lower one. You shiver, still unaccustomed to the contact, though it hasn’t yet caused you discomfort. You are free after all those wishes, and you are with someone who holds you against him as if you were as precious as your magical long hair.

It was supposed to be yet another case where the intruder’s fate ended up in the hands of the ruler of the Nation, and yet things turned out a little differently. Or rather, your fate had been in the hands of Zuko himself for a long time, just not in the conventional way that all expected

Although it had emerged from countless battles in which the rigid rules of the kingdom had significantly softened, the nation’s governing system still dictated that any fugitive found in lands or colonies belonging to the Fire Nation had to accept whatever decision the Fire Lord made about their life. Those rules probably needed some updating too, but with your luck, you happened to arrive just when the old ones were still in force. It’s not like you had chosen to run away from your kingdom voluntarily, but there were too many injustices where you came from

Brought before him at his feet, after a brutal capture that had drained all your energy, you were surprised not to have been immediately condemned to the harshest punishment. Zuko himself was astonished that, in your gaze — in that hint of impossible vengeance — he had recognized the strength of a flame. A strength he had searched in himself for years for many reasons, and which had come only with time, while in you, it burned without doubt or fear

Even though you did not belong to fire, you burned like it. That was exactly what Zuko was searching for the rebirth of his nation — new fire

Instead of being sent back or condemned according to the nation’s laws, you found yourself spending far too many hours recounting everything you had lived through up to that moment. You spoke of injustices, of punishments, of small and large rebellions that were often sparked by you yourself. You spoke with such intensity that Zuko — despite still being somewhat confused by his own decision to keep you within his lands for the time being — often found himself far too intrigued. Not by the revolutions, but by the way you shone with anger

And so the days passed, then the weeks, and finally the months. Hours upon hours spent walking through the royal corridors, long pauses just so you could reenact scenes of what you had lived through, mimicking movements that often even made him laugh a little. A gesture so natural to you, yet one that did not go unnoticed by the court advisers, who still remembered the figure of the once-angry adolescent, the now Fire Lord

Laughter that often turned into smiles, hands accidentally brushing as you walked side by side, or the long hours you both justified spending in each other’s bed as a way to “save time” and add more hours to your stories. Hours that often ended with hands on waists, lips against lips, fingertips that wandered along your neck that burned at hot contact, almost like a hickey

New fire, perhaps that was what you were to him. Something unknown, something he wanted to tame simply to assert dominance over what already, in a way, belonged to him. That was what you were, because there was no possibility that, in the enjoyment you shared together, the primitive form of fire could also emerge — love

At least that was what you thought, perhaps still with the mindset of having to run away even from the places where you felt good and kind of loved. If only you knew that it was precisely that running away that had made Zuko fall in love

✦ — beautiful dividers by @uzmacchiato !!

the fear of the ordinary. the fear of no longer hearing the usual compliments from the other person’s side, not after maybe three years in a relationship where you feel you’ve already expressed your love in so many different ways. the fear of no longer being seen as arrogant but talented, but rather as just the boyfriend who might eventually become your husband. as emotionally intense as this title may be, kaiser has never fully trusted emotions. ever since he managed to become someone after all that shit for a lot, actions have spoken far louder than any emotional words anyone could ever give him.

and so that led to the breakup of the century, so heavily publicized by sports and gossip newspapers that for weeks you avoided even looking at newsstand windows. if the pain of being left by your fiancé wasn’t already enough, the entire media world only seemed eager to cause you more pain with pointless interviews, which you consistently refused, and which had the sole purpose of making you retrace every step of your relationship with your ex.

can you recover from a situation like this?

well, yes. but only after months, maybe even a year. or perhaps even more than a year, if you really don’t want to lie to yourself. but you do get over a situation like that. you do it by starting to realize how ordinary is the most intimate form of love, the proof of knowing a soul so deeply that it becomes practically in symbiosis with your life.

and if kaiser was afraid of knowing a soul so deeply at its core, maybe he should have told you earlier, before whispering that you were the most beautiful discovery of his life after so much shit he had been through. his inspiration, in every way.

but speaking of kaiser… he got over you too. or at least, that’s what he tries to convince himself of after looking for you in a thousand other women who weren’t even a crumb of your soul. he looked for you in the compliments and whispers of his subsequent girlfriends, but he didn’t find you there, nor in the moments when he maybe just wanted to have dinner at his place together, perhaps even in silence. but he did get over you, yes, because that’s the only thing he can say after being the one who created all of this.

The two months of absence suddenly seemed to have lasted no longer than a breath.

A few hours after that last call, when you received — again through that emergency platform — that the estimated return would actually be delayed from a few hours to nearly 60 days, the world became a little darker than it had already grown in the hours before. Maybe it was the sadness, the stress, a mix of both emotions and that kind of shit — yet you had truly felt lost. This change didn’t work in your favor, not when the fight had escalated into something harsher than just bitter words. He hadn’t told you much about the real damage from the mission, only that the radiation levels were far higher than headquarters had realized, and that the chances of getting them out before the danger subsided were unlikely.

Supplies could arrive, but they couldn’t come back. Not that you were worried about Leon’s chances of survival — but had fate really put you in a situation like this?

Over those two months you had talked, not daily, but almost all the time. Silly, routine questions, the kind a wife and husband should ask when they’re apart. Yet they sounded static, not truly sincere, as if in those moments you were both being guided by a robot carrying out a default action. As if the sense of longing you truly felt had faded, just to conform to certain standards that, at that moment, didn’t belong to you at all.

Yet, now Leon was on the other side of the door.

It’s not that you didn’t want to see him — you had missed him terribly — but it was precisely that fear of static that stopped you from opening that door and literally throwing yourself at him with joy. You knew very well there was a chance, however small, that everything that had happened while you were apart would carry over into your meeting, or perhaps even into the rest of your life together. It was precisely that fear of not being able to find your way back to each other that had been eating you up inside for far too many hours.

And yet, you knew he couldn’t stay behind the door forever. He probably had the keys — he’d only rung the bell for the sake of convenience and speed. Sooner or later, he would come in anyway.

You sigh, perhaps too much, or perhaps too little. You don’t know, and maybe you don’t even want to. You take a few steps forward, placing your hand on the key already in the lock and turning it a few times, until the door in front of you clicks open. The new breath that was slipping from your lips catches in your throat, for a span of time that stretches from the moment the door begins to shift slightly to when Leon is fully in front of you, his back against the polished wooden surface.

You lift your face just enough to look at a face that had been waiting for you to notice it. You almost soften at the fact that he was already looking at you, but it’s precisely in his tired expression that you realize you probably shouldn’t interpret it as something sweet. You run your tongue over your lips, partly to moisten them and partly because you really don’t know what to say. In this situation, theoretically, who should speak first? The one who made the mistake in the first place or the one who let the situation unfold? Or maybe both?

“Welcome back” you say, your calm voice hiding more than a hint of nervousness. You never look away from their eyes, and it is precisely in your sudden words that, for a second, you see something change but too quickly to decipher. You see him slightly tense, perhaps even more than when he normally goes on a mission “Thanks” he says, just that — maybe too simple, yet at the same time balanced for a situation like this. Usually at this hour you would have already been hugging for minutes on end, but instead, in this shitty situation, your entire world has literally been turned upside down. Leon moves, heading toward the living room with the strap of his duffel bag gripped in his right hand. You follow almost immediately, staying a few steps behind but always nearby. You see him stop in front of the couch, his back to you, looking terribly tense. The object crashes to the floor, and at the same time, you startle, shifting your gaze repeatedly between him and his traveling companion.

“Leon? Are you okay?” you ask, staying behind him but not moving closer “Cramp in your fingers?” you ask, a little puzzled and confused, knowing at the same time that body cramps aren’t uncommon for him. Even with his back to you, it’s as if you can read on his face the usual dull, hard expression he wears every time you find yourselves in a situation like this. For that very reason, you decide not to move closer, so as not to make things, which are already on thin ice, even worse. You clench your fists, tensing up and waiting for any sign of movement, which however, is slow to come “Can you explain what we’re pushing forward?” he asks, still rigid and never facing you directly. Your lips tremble, sincerely hoping this won’t lead to another argument right now “I don’t know, Leon, I don’t know. I just know that I’m really fed up with this situation”

“Oh, so you’re the one who’s fed up? Unthinkable, I would have bet on it” he says sharply, and even though it stings a little, you hold it in “Don’t I have the right to be? Do you think I enjoy arguing?” you admit, a bit hesitant and uncertain “I just think you often assume I like it, when I probably hate it even more than you do” he says it, far too bluntly “I never said you liked it” you defend yourself, but it almost feels pointless “And yet you think it, because otherwise I can’t explain this strong urge you have to contest every single word that comes out of my mouth” he admits, and you realize you’re hating both of you in this moment “If you think that, maybe you don’t even know me!” you say, but then you feel the weight of your words, which, however, hang only briefly without an answer “Is it possible that I don’t know the person I married?” he says it, far too quickly.

You could have done something good — ignored it and simply hugged him — but once again, you chose to let pride win. You know you’re not the only foolish one here, Leon isn’t treating you in the best way either. Yet, you feel as if you deserve a little more than the hatred you’re both throwing at each other. How long can a situation like this go on now that he is actually at home and not in some unknown remote place?

“And yet you married that person” you say, setting aside a bit of your pride and taking a few timid steps forward “So maybe you do know that person, in fact I’m sure you do. It’s just the situation that makes you uncertain about it” you admit, continuing your speech. You find yourself just a few centimeters from his shoulders, unsure how to truly continue this conversation, even if strangely hopeful after weeks of anguish “So please, try to ignore this blurred view… because you, Leon, you do know that person. And I know you, so really, please, let’s try to be ourselves” you say, pressing your lips together and letting your heart speak a little too much “Because I’m certain, even in this shitty moment, that the person in front of me is the one I love, the one I married, and the one I would marry again a thousand more times. I… I just… I just wish we could talk and listen to each other- ” you admit, but you stop yourself mid-sentence.

The same shoulders that were in front of you now press against your face, as if you were caught in a vice. It all happened far too quickly — perhaps because of his job that requires things like this —but you can only make out fragments of the moment when his hand found your arm, pulling you against him. It’s a strange feeling after weeks and weeks of no physical contact, and yet at the same time it feels so familiar. It should be normal for a married couple, and yet you’re fine with this sense of novelty that you had missed so much.

You stay like that for a time you can’t quite measure, though it’s not your main concern at the moment. You prefer to focus on his scent, on the feeling of his hands on your waist as he holds you close, on his head resting against yours, on the realization that all you really need is to talk rather than end up becoming almost strangers again.

His head lowers, coming to rest his forehead against your shoulder. Your arms slide along his neck, until you feel small kisses starting from the hollow of your neck up to just beneath your ear. You tense for a few seconds before completely relaxing, letting your hand wander along his back until it reaches his blondish hair. You chuckle, tilting your neck slightly to create more space between you “Are you okay?” you ask with a little smirk, as his grip on your hips tightens slightly “I just needed this. Because of this childish fight, I haven’t been able to touch you for so long” he whispers, but his words reach you clearly “Oooh, so that’s all you cared about?” you ask, trying to keep the teasing going, but it’s in his almost wearily lovestruck gaze that you don’t know how to keep up this silly act of teasing him “The point was to clear things up, but with you like this, it was easier than expected” he admits, though this time his words don’t reach you clearly “Me like this? What do you mean, my appearance? I’m literally wearing pajamas…” you say confused, but he shakes his head “You like this, yourself, the one I love. I say it with the premise that I love you even with this pajamas on I bought you”

You realized that something was wrong from the very moment you noticed that the ring had been left on the nightstand. It wasn’t something extremely unusual, especially considering the price he had paid years earlier to buy it, but at the same time it was strange to see that glint far too close, and not around his ring finger.

It certainly wasn’t news that Leon cared about your wedding ring, after all, he had often come up that he himself considered it probably his favorite object in the world. Ironically, you always said that wasn’t true — that in any universe he would have chosen a gun over that little piece of jewelry — but deep down in your heart you knew the truth behind his words. You simply liked to joke whenever the topic came up, to be ironic about something you knew weighed so deeply in his chest. A bit like sugarcoating the pill — avoiding talking directly about what really lay behind the career he had been carrying on his shoulders.

Irony had always played a fundamental role in your lives, both when you were individuals and later as an actual married couple. It was better to laugh than to realize that it was more common to see a gun in the house than a bouquet of flowers.

Irony, always and only irony.

Even when it spilled into the worst of your arguments, the ones that lasted for hours and perhaps stressed him more than his entire days away — too far away from that tiny bit of normalcy he had imposed on his life.

Not that you liked arguing with your husband, but you were all too aware that your reaction to an argument was very different from his. If for you it was just a simple disagreement, for him it was carrying the awareness that it could be your last conversation at any moment before being sent to the other side of the globe. Perhaps this was what made you a bad person — being aware of this possibility, yet still starting an argument that had left you both completely drained last night.

And this morning, at 05:47, Leon had left the house after receiving a call less than twenty minutes earlier. Less than three hours after having spat venom at each other, forgetting the real reason you had argued in the first place.

You sigh, getting out of bed and picking up his ring. You place it on the marble countertop while brushing your teeth, move it onto the bed while changing your clothes, and watch it from a distance as you sip the first coffee of the day. It feels strange to see it close by, after everything that happened last night. It almost feels like a reminder of how much of a terrible person you actually are with the man who is, theoretically, your husband and the one you love most.

After your cat obviously, but you don’t think it’s the right moment to use your usual irony, not when he can’t laugh at your words.

You don’t even realize you’ve woken from this thought until the static noise starts on the other end, with the cold screen pressed against your ear. You place the coffee on the table, stand up, and begin pacing nervously around the room, occasionally glancing at the glint.

Is he not answering the call because of a zombi or simply for the sheer pleasure of not wanting to hear your voice? You don’t know if you honestly want to find out, either answer would be terrible.

“Is something wrong?” you hear on the other end, snapping you awake once again from thoughts that might be making things worse than they actually are. You startle and clear your throat, trying to analyze his tone — one you unfortunately didn’t catch the first time. You stammer something without really speaking, perhaps still focused on analyzing something that’s actually irrelevant “Hey” you finally say, yet you remain fixated on his tone, which — irreverent as it may be at the moment — can tell you whether you’ll spend the next few hours apart from him with solvable anxieties or or full blown panic attacks.

For a few seconds, the silence stretches for decades — longer than the years you’ve spent without him than with him “Umh… Yes. So?” you hear again from the other side, and it’s precisely in his absent irony that you realize he clearly hasn’t shaken off the problems from a few hours ago. A nervous smile appears on your lips, and you’re thankful it’s a phone call and not a face-to-face meeting — otherwise, you’d have burst into tears at his confused look “Yeah. Did you get to the place you were assigned?” you ask, unable to shake off the confirmed feeling that he’s still angry with you. You hear a sigh on the other end, one so heavy that it usually only comes when you’ve teased him too much or when he’s genuinely annoyed “Yes. I got here, I think… about half an hour ago? I guess. It’s going to take a while here” he says, and you don’t really know how to keep the conversation going.

“I understand. Did you take everything? Are you sure you didn’t forget anything? I could send the stuff to headquarters and they’d forward it to you and then-” you start letting your words flow a little, but you’re cut off “I didn’t forget anything. I think I need to go, the patrol is being assigned”

You’re taken aback when the call ends abruptly. The static noise fills your ears and then the entire room. You don’t know how long you stay there with the phone still pressed to your ear, but you realize the coffee has become as cold as the South Pole, even though it had been as warm as a late July day. It’s not the first time the line has been cut off in the middle of one of your calls — often it’s even the anti-tracking restrictions that make them end so abruptly — but something deep in your heart tells you that this time, it has nothing to do with that. You would almost prefer that he had hung up because of an approaching zombie rather than a simple irritation in his heart.

Maybe not exactly, but the fact remains that the first panic attack of the day is probably not far off.

You sigh louder than you really should, placing the phone next to the ring on the table, only to pick it up again a few seconds later. Your fingers fly over the keyboard, as if the zombie were truly close to him and if you had zero time. You stare at the screen for a moment before hitting send, then place the phone back on the table, face down.

✉️ from you — “I love you. Don’t make me worry, and stay safe. Call me when you have a few free minutes, okay?”

You hate that he didn’t even tell you which remote and dangerous location he’s in right now, but you can’t blame his behavior. You’d probably carry annoyance and resentment too after finding your life partner angry just after returning from an exhausting day. You can’t judge him for giving you a taste of the same medicine, even if admitting it probably hurts more than the punishment itself.

You stay in the kitchen for a few more minutes, completely abandoning the coffee to itself. You only return to the room hours later, when the morning sun has given way to the amber light filtering through the window above the sink. Not that you spent the hours outside the house pretending to be completely calm — but having constant panic attacks on your bed is better than having them on the shiny kitchen floor. Ignoring the phone and keeping it away is easier than having it constantly nearby, with the anxiety of checking whether he has read the message.

With a few tears still at the corners of your eyes, you notice that the message was actually read just a few minutes after you sent it — almost half a day ago by now. You involuntarily tighten your grip on the phone, but at that very moment you notice an unusual notification. Usually you never really have many notifications on your phone, probably because of a setting that moves them all to “read later” as soon as they arrive. Yet this one is marked as “urgent” and you know for certain that only one app on your phone has this specific type of notification. You jolt when the realization hits you, while your hands become almost like butter just when you really need to hurry.

The only app with this type of notification is a specific app for the distant families of D.S.O. members. Its sole function is to create a communication bridge between agents and their families when the situation has already become worse than originally expected. If a notification comes from there, the chances that something serious has happened are practically confirmed.

If earlier the panic attacks had already filled your day with shit, the feeling you’re experiencing now is only a small part of the previous hours. You immediately open the app, only to notice the notification that arrived less than a few seconds ago — seconds that now feel like the last calm ones before something you really don’t want to discover. In the messages section you find only a preset message, one of those that, if you press it, automatically calls the special agent.

“Shit” you mutter to yourself, hastily pressing the function, putting the phone to your ear and stomping your foot more than necessary on the floor out of anxiety. With the static noise in the background, you wonder if it was really worth arguing so bitterly a few hours ago — you know for certain you wouldn’t have done it if you had known about this situation beforehand. Leon has never had to use this function in all these years, and if he’s using it right now — he who has survived practically everything — then something horrible has happened. Bad as shit, probably.

The breath caught in your throat only returns when the static noise is replaced by something quieter but strangely more human. You hear only a faint breath in the background, low enough to set off all your worst fears “Leon? Leon?” you ask, but there’s no answer “Leon? Leon? Leon?!” you say, raising your voice as if he were actually there, just as you truly wish he were “Leon?!”

“I hear you” you hear from the other side, and just his voice is enough to make you break down in tears. Hearing him speak gives you the certainty that he’s alive, and if he’s alive, then all the worries of the last moments are just fears born from the terrible situation you’re in. Your hand goes to your face, trying to cover your mouth to control and mask the sobs. “I thought something had happened… you’ve never contacted me like this before…” you say, but unfortunately you know your sobbing breath does not go unnoticed.

You hear someone speaking faintly in the background on the other side, followed by a movement and the sound of footsteps continuing for a few seconds. You cover your mouth completely, sit down on the chair, and wait. It doesn’t even cross your mind to worry or probably get angry that he didn’t hesitate to hear you crying — you can’t compare your situations right now. You try to muster your strength, because you know that at this moment the ice is far too thin and could break again at any moment.

“I can talk now. I was leaving the tower” you hear on the other side, and immediately your nerves tighten again “Okay. Did something happen?” you ask, keeping it vague — partly because you really want to know what happened, and partly because asking about the ignored message isn’t the best idea right now. You hear a slight commotion, which gradually fades with each passing second “They’ve cut the line on many phones. We’re communicating through the disposable ones they provided. There was an attack that we neutralized, but for the moment we have to wait until the radiation levels drop”

“I understand. Do you know how long you’ll have to stay put?” you ask, and once again the commotion in the background appears and fades “I’m not certain, it could take a few hours or a few days. They’re still updating the databases to actually understand how much they attacked and how much they lost” he says, using technical language that would normally make you laugh, but now it leaves only a bitterness at the back of your throat. You remain silent, nodding as if he could see you. “… I understand. Alright” you say.

It’s precisely in the silence that follows, in the words that seem to leave your mouth but for some unknown reason get stuck, that you wonder how much you really love your husband. If you loved him as you say you do, you probably wouldn’t be like this — kilometres away, without the certainty of being able to tell yourself that you miss him. Or rather, the certainty is there, but not the kind that would confirm that Leon misses you too. How can you miss someone who shatters your boundaries? What if that person is your wife?

“Are you okay?” you ask in a faint voice, hoping your words reach his heart the way he reached yours years ago. A slight grunt is heard, loud enough to echo faintly “I’m okay”

The corners of your mouth lift slightly, enough to give you a softer expression “Okay… alright. I’m glad you’re okay, Leon. I’m really glad”

“Look” you hear on the other side, and it’s precisely in the moment when the conversation strangely seems to continue that you realize you might need to pay attention to what he’s about to say. You perk up your ears, your hand slightly trembling “Yes?” you say, a little uncertainly. The noise grows louder again “The message. I read it. I actually used this function just to call you. You’re aware that… we’re not okay, right?”

You knew it, but hearing it said and admitted by the person himself hurts more than all the venom you’ve spat and received over the past hours “I know. I know” you say, pressing your lips together and holding back a sigh that might only make things worse — a gesture of irritation that is really just worry “I know you’re aware, you’re not stupid. Listen, right now I really don’t have the strength or the will to argue…” he says, then pauses “But trust me when I say I’m pissed as hell. It feels like at the center of your world is only the goal of being my source of stress, even when I’m just trying to breathe, as Leon and not as a damn agent” he says, and as much as you’re aware that he’s right, at the same time you feel the need to tell him how you’ve perceived it “I know, Leon. It’s just that… fuck, every time you’re home you have nothing to say to me. Like I’m the doll you keep on the shelf, the one you use when you don’t want to kill yourself with alcohol, thinking I’m not watching. With this doll you just want to fuck or even create, I don’t know, the dream you’ve been telling me you want for years?” you say, and silence falls again.

“Don’t you dare. You speak as if you know the shit I’ve carried since I was just supposed to be a young adult, thrown into something I knew I could never fully handle” he responds coldly, almost making your blood boil again “You know perfectly well that you could have stepped away the moment something didn’t respect your limits” you immediately retort, gripping the phone tighter than necessary “Why are you acting like this, my limits? Do you even know my limits?” he asks, and though the background noise is loud, it’s just a whisper compared to his voice “I’d know if only you would talk to me!”

Can resentment really turn something sincere into pure, toxic bitterness? You genuinely ask this yourself, because you know that you probably wouldn’t be like this if only both of you could turn this bitterness into common ground. For years, you’ve done it for even bigger and more serious things, yet right now it feels almost like climbing a peak with your bare hands. When was the moment you started walking on two separate paths instead of a single one?

You don’t remember, because maybe it never really happened. Perhaps the daily habit of arguing without ever truly clearing things up has led you here, to a point where you don’t really know how this relationship can survive without first learning to breathe again. Maybe the moment could be today, today when he left his wedding ring on the nightstand. Yet you would rather endure everything he’s been living through for years than let him go and admit that the two of you no longer work. You’re far too stubborn and in love with your husband to let yourselves become like those couples who live under the same roof but exist in two completely parallel dimensions.

Right now, silence serves the same role as tears. The longer it stretches, the more you see it distort into something that could resemble a future where you truly can no longer live with Leon, but only survive with what remains of him.

“When will you be home?” you ask, your lips tight and pale, your mind already on the other side of the house, perhaps in front of the framed photo of your wedding. The silence continues and weighs heavily, probably more than a call filled with rivers of tears “When it’s needed” he says, and even though his words are deliberately harsh, you catch a trace of fear in them. You swallow, uncertain how to speak without breaking other untouchable walls at the moment “There’s always a need for you in our home, Leon” you say, just before hearing the tone that signals the end of the call.

Because no matter how bastard life is, you would always choose the option that would lead you to carry a minimum of the weight that Leon carries. It’s just that often the weight, even if minimal as it may be seem, can make an entire system falter.