"Here lies a heart caught between Heaven and Hell."

Slowly Losing My Mind?

[aeristhinks]

"THE HALO IS BROKEN... ...BUT THEIR WINGS STILL BLEED."

IDENTITY: AERIS AGE: 19

Drifting through the cathedral of shadows… Welcome to the Celestial Atelier [AERIS SANCTUM]. I am your guide, AerisThinks [she/her], curator of the Gothic Angel's lament. Tread lightly, [SOJOURNER], for you have entered a sanctum where art meets darkness and heaven meets the abyss. Beware- the eyes of the fallen are always watching. MASTERLIST 1.0 MASTERLIST 2.0

Commissions: OPEN Every divine creation bears it's own SIGILS

Fragmented wings [NSFW ALPHABET SERIES] are currently being mended - Approach with reverence and curiosity.

CELESTIAL SCRIPTURE.TXT: New visions typically descend Wednesday & Sunday nights, but may vary.

banners by @haecunt © 2025 Aeristhinks. Every feathered word belongs to @aeristhinks.

Do NOT replicate, distort, reinterpret, or steal these creations in any form across ANY realm. This includes themes, symbols, and featured sanctuaries.

[aeristhinks]

The stars watched me fall, and the skies wept in silence. I do not beg for redemption—only reverence.

Fallen from grace, not from power. Read wisely, mortal. - If you are a minor, turn back. The gates are closed to you. You will be blocked. - Blank blogs are shadows without souls. Approach in fullness or be BLOCKED by celestial decree. - All of my work—every word, every whisper—is sacred. Do not plagiarize, translate, copy, or twist it, including my themes or pinned posts —To do so will be met with consequences.

- This realm is not spoiler-free. Prophecies will be spoken. Stories will be unraveled.

- Do not feed my creations into AI or third-party temples. These offerings are not yours to sacrifice. - I write for AFAB readers—fem! and gender-neutral. My muses are ambiguous, ethereal, untethered by appearance. Not self-inserts, but echoes of you, maybe. Maybe not.

- Hate will be deleted, reported, etc. No spam likes, either. This isn’t a game of offerings. Respect the temple.

Forbidden from the Realm of AerisThinks: Dub-con, non-con, incest, step-cest, illegal age-gaps, and other wicked shadows. Bodily horrors like scat, vomit, piss, mutilation, etc. Underage characters. The sacred cannot be profaned.

Don’t forget to raise a little heaven on your way through hell. <3

© 2025 Aeristhinks. Every feathered word belongs to @aeristhinks.

Do NOT replicate, distort, reinterpret, or steal these creations in any form across ANY realm. This includes themes, symbols, and featured sanctuaries.

[aeristhinks]

NSFW Alphabet - ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁 Shota Aizawa Edition ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁

A = Aftercare

He doesn’t even wait. The moment your body goes slack, the moment he sees that blissed-out look on your face, he’s already moving. He gently kisses your collarbone, pulls you into his arms, and murmurs a soft, “You did so well. So good for me.” His hands are warm, calming—running up and down your spine, smoothing your hair, grounding you. He’ll carry you to the bathroom, clean you up with a warm towel if you're too dazed, then tuck you in, hoodie and all. If you like cuddles? You will be wrapped in his arms with a soft sigh. If you need water/snacks? He’s on it. Sleepy, grumpy, but completely devoted.

Sometimes, when he thinks you’re asleep, he’ll whisper, “I love you more than I know how to say.” You’re not asleep. You never are when he says that.

B = Body Part

His favorite part of himself: His hands. Because they can be rough or gentle—and you’ve told him they make you feel safe. The way your body reacts to his touch? The way you lean into his palm when he cradles your cheek? He doesn’t say it, but he adores it.

Favorite part of you: Your hips. He has a fixation with gripping them, kissing them, pinning them down. That soft, sensitive curve that twitches when he drags his tongue across your skin? He’s obsessed. Also: the look in your eyes when you’re falling apart for him. That raw trust? That’s what wrecks him.

C = Cum

He doesn’t care about the mess—he cares about the meaning. Shouta is low-key possessive in bed, and nothing hits that emotional chord harder than cumming inside you—warm, slow, and deep, with his lips on your temple whispering, “You’re mine.” He’ll stroke your sides as he stays inside, breathing with you, anchoring you both. The sight of you dripping afterward? He’ll bite his lip. Sometimes, he’ll push it back in with his fingers—slowly, deliberately—while watching your expression.

D = Dirty Secret

Shouta’s had dreams about you. Long before anything happened. He once touched himself after a mission, tired and sore, while thinking about you straddling him in his sleeping bag. He moaned your name. Loud. Embarrassingly loud. When Hizashi walked by and heard something, he pretended he was groaning from pain. Spoiler: he wasn’t.

He also has a pair of your panties hidden in his drawer. He doesn’t use them anymore… but he can’t throw them away.

E = Experience

He doesn’t talk about his past—but he knows what he’s doing. He’s quiet, observant, intuitive. Your body is a study, a puzzle he wants to solve. And once he learns what makes you gasp, cry out, arch your back? He won’t stop until you’re shaking in his arms.

He’s not a show-off, but that calm confidence? It’s deadly. He’ll say, “Tell me what you need,” and then do it ten times better than you imagined.

F = Favorite Position Missionary—but not gentle. He likes being able to see you. Forearms on either side of your head, pinning you down. Deep, slow thrusts that leave you breathless. The eye contact alone could kill you. “Look at me while I take care of you,” he’ll say. From behind, slow grind, his hand over your mouth to muffle the cries while his hips do all the work. Bonus: when you’re still in one of his old T-shirts or hoodies? He loses it.

G = Goofy

Not goofy in the moment. He’s intense, focused, and incredibly controlled. But—if you fluster him? If you giggle while teasing him, or if your stomach growls mid-foreplay? He’ll chuckle, that low raspy laugh that makes your legs weak, and say something like: “So needy you can’t wait for dinner?” H = Hair

Let’s talk about that hair. When it’s down, it frames his face and sticks to his damp skin as he leans over you, breath ghosting over your lips, strands tickling your bare chest. You’ve pulled on it—fistfuls of it—while he’s got his tongue inside you, and he never tells you to stop. In fact, he grunts, deep in his throat, and his hips grind harder when you do.

Now... below the belt? He’s got a modest amount—dark, coarse, masculine—but it’s well-kept. He trims it enough to be neat, but not bare. He doesn’t think too much about grooming, but the way you moan when you go down on him? Yeah. He noticed. So now he keeps it clean for you.

And yes, the carpet matches the drapes—he’s got that same black-as-midnight look down there, and someone help you, it's just as intense.

I = Intimacy

Shouta isn’t someone who throws around “I love you” like candy. He shows it in touch, in restraint, in the way he cradles your jaw mid-thrust like you're porcelain. When he kisses you during sex? He kisses you like he means it. Tongue deep in your mouth, forehead to yours, and eyes half-lidded like he’s memorizing every breath you take.

He doesn’t need soft music or rose petals. He needs your hands in his. Your moans in his ears. Your trust in his heart. He makes sex feel sacred. Even when it’s filthy—messy, wet, raw—it’s still reverent. You’ve cried before. Not from pain. From how safe he makes you feel. From how he worships you without saying a word.

J = Jack Off

When he does it, it’s with quiet desperation. He’s not theatrical about it. It’s late. You’re asleep, curled against his side, and he’s trying so hard not to wake you. But he’s hard. He’s aching. And he just wants to feel you, even if it’s through his imagination.

He palms himself under the covers, teeth grit, silent curses under his breath. He pictures you bent over his desk or riding him slowly with nothing but one of his long-sleeved shirts on.

If you ever catch him? He’ll go dead silent. Just look at you. Waiting. Daring you to say something. (And if you decide to climb into his lap and take over? That might be the only time you’ll hear him beg.)

K = Kink

Oh, sweetheart. This man has a treasure chest full of sinful secrets.

Bondage (Scarves, cuffs, his belt): He lives to restrain you. Not out of cruelty—out of control. You writhing under him with wrists tied and thighs trembling? That’s his church.

Praise kink (for YOU): Whisper “You’re the only one I want” in his ear, and he might actually lose control.

Power exchange: Dom/sub dynamics, soft dom especially. He loves when you surrender—not out of fear, but out of trust. You giving up control? You letting him own your pleasure? He never takes it lightly.

Temperature play: That heated sleeping bag of his? He’s used it before—with you inside, sweat-slick, needy, and whimpering while he uses his fingers to play you like an instrument.

Silent submission: He won’t ask you to kneel. But when you do it on your own? His voice breaks.

L = Location

Shouta is practical, not flashy. But he's also sneaky.

His office: Quiet, dim, door locked, you on his lap with your thighs spread while he tries to keep his voice down. Papers get knocked off the desk. You both pretend it didn’t happen.

Training room, late at night: You two are "just stretching." Next thing you know, you’re bent over a bench, his scarf looped around your mouth to muffle the sounds.

Tent on a mission: Everyone's asleep. You're in his sleeping bag. One hand around your throat. The other between your legs. “Keep quiet for me.”

He’s not into being caught—but he is into knowing that no one else gets this part of him. Only you.

M = Motivation

Turn-ons? You breathing.

But more specifically:

The way you look at him when you’re needy and shy but still brave enough to say, “Shouta… I want you.”

When you wear his clothes.

When you fall asleep on him and grind just a little bit in your dreams. He notices.

When you run your fingers through his hair, tug it, or scratch his scalp. It’s practically foreplay.

When you kiss that one scar near his eye. He flinches—but he melts.

Also: He lives for anticipation. You texting him while he’s in a staff meeting saying, “Can’t wait for you to come home” with a picture attached? He’ll be counting down the seconds.

N = No

Shouta is firm on boundaries. Yours and his.

No degradation. He doesn’t like insults—especially toward you. “Slut,” “whore,” “dumb girl”—he’ll shut that down fast. He’s too protective.

No noncon/dubcon. He’s deeply respectful of agency. If you’re not 100% into it, he’d rather hold you than touch you.

No group stuff. He doesn’t share. Ever. He doesn’t even joke about it. You’re his. He’s yours. End of story.

No playing around with safewords. The moment you say “Red,” everything stops. He’s by your side, stroking your hair, murmuring reassurance. No shame. No anger. Just love.

O = Oral

Giving: Shouta is an oral worshipper. He doesn't go down on you because it's expected—he does it like it’s his divine mission to make you fall apart. He’ll lie between your thighs, mouth open, breathing you in, and the second you gasp or flinch? He. Doubles. Down.

Long, slow licks up your folds. Tongue flat and heavy when he drags it across your clit. Lips wrapped tight around it while his fingers curl inside you with perfect rhythm. The man has stamina—he doesn’t stop until you’re crying. Even then, he just licks your tears off your cheek and asks, “One more?”

Receiving: He groans when you drop to your knees. Not loud, but low and deep in his chest like a man trying to stay in control. You want to watch him? His head tilts back, lips parted, hair falling around his face while your name spills out in gravel.

He guides you, but never forces. Just low praise and breathy commands: “That’s it… so good, sweetheart.” “You’re gonna make me lose it—fuck.” If you look up at him while doing it? He whimpers. You’re welcome.

P = Pace

He reads you like scripture. His pace isn’t just fast or slow—it’s intuitive. He’s measured. Deliberate. Cruel in the best ways.

Sensual Aizawa? His hips roll slowly into you. The kind of slow where you feel every inch dragging across your walls. He whispers against your mouth, hands gripping your waist, letting your body tremble beneath him as he murmurs, “Feel that? Every time? That’s all for you.”

Rough Aizawa? It’s calculated destruction. Slamming into you from behind, one hand in your hair, the other pinning your wrists, growling, “You teased me all day for this? You wanted it hard, didn’t you?”

Even when he’s rough, he checks on you. His grip loosens if you flinch. His kisses soften if you tear up. He's never out of control—he just pretends to be for your pleasure.

Q = Quickie

Not his favorite… BUT, SOMEONE HELP YOU, if he wants you and doesn’t have time. Because Shouta doesn’t rush—he concentrates all his need into a few minutes of pure, unfiltered intensity.

Pulls you into a janitor closet at UA and locks the door with a firm, “Five minutes. Clothes off.”

Your panties shoved aside, hand over your mouth, your legs trembling as he thrusts up into you with a brutal rhythm.

“You wanted this. Take it.”

He finishes fast—but somehow, you always finish first. Afterward, he presses his forehead to yours and whispers, “I’ll take care of you properly when we get home.” And he always, always does.

R = Risk

He doesn’t need danger to feel the thrill—just the idea of you surrendering to him is enough. But he's not vanilla. He’ll try new things, test limits… within reason. Especially if you ask softly.

Bondage? Yes. Temperature play? He owns warming lube and has used ice cubes more than once. Voyeuristic tension? Not in public, but the threat of it? Oh yes. A vibrator in your panties while sitting at a staff meeting? He’ll lean in and whisper, “Don’t cum until I say.”

The riskiest thing? He once let you tie him up. Not because he needed to, but because he wanted to trust you the same way you trust him. And when you kissed his scarred wrist and whispered, “You’re safe with me too,” he nearly broke.

S = Stamina

He's not exactly a machine, but I PROMISE you, he'll get the job done with extra credit.

Shouta’s stamina is less “how long can he last” and more “how long can you survive.”

One round with him can last well over an hour if he’s going slow.

He doesn’t like to cum too fast—he loves to edge himself while he edges you.

He’ll grind against you, barely pushing in, kissing you all over, whispering things like: “You wanna cum, baby? Already? Hm. You’re not even full yet.”

After he finally finishes, don’t think it’s over. He’ll clean you up. Kiss your thighs. Let you breathe for five minutes. Then?

Fingers.

Mouth.

Toy from the drawer.

Round two.

If you ask for more? He’ll ruin you—his voice hoarse, body slick with sweat, whispering, “Still greedy? You’re gonna cry, baby. Come here.”

You’re lucky if he lets you walk the next day.

T = Toys

He’s got the collection.

Neatly organized. Clean. Quality-grade. You discovered it once and nearly passed out.

He’s not flashy about it. He won’t whip out a whole dungeon. But the second he knows you’re in the mood to experiment? He’s prepared.

🖤 For you:

Vibrating plugs that he warms in his hands first.

Wand massager with variable intensity (he holds it on your clit and whispers, “Don’t cum until I say.”)

Silk ties. Suede cuffs. Leash and collar—only if you beg sweet enough.

Lube that smells like lavender because he wants you to feel safe and cared for even when you’re crying.

🖤 For him (when you top):

Rope. You can tie him down. He won’t say a word—just stare at you like you’re his goddess.

Sometimes, he uses toys not because he wants to dominate—but because he wants you to lose control. And baby, he will break you with precision.

U = Unfair

Oh, sweetheart. This man is DEVILISH.

He doesn’t tease you for laughs. He teases you with emotional destruction. He does it because he knows your body better than you do.

You: arching under him, begging, about to come. Aizawa: kissing your trembling lips and saying, “You’re not there yet. Wait for me.”

Things he’s done that make him illegal:

Turned off your vibrator seconds before climax, three times in a row.

Told you “Good girls don’t cum without permission.”

Held you down with his scarf and licked you until you screamed—and then stopped.

Walked away after edging you for an hour with, “We’ll finish after dinner.”

But when you cry? Shake? Say his name like a prayer?

He melts. He holds your face. He kisses every inch of your skin and says, “Okay, baby. You’ve earned it. Let me spoil you now.”

He’ll tease you to your breaking point. But he’ll never let you break alone.

V = Volume

He’s a quiet man, but when he’s in deep?

🖤 Low, rumbling groans. 🖤 Muted curses. 🖤 Sharp breaths near your ear. 🖤 Quiet “fuck, yes” when your nails rake his back.

You don’t get loud, messy Aizawa every time. But when he’s really into it—like when you sit on his face and grind? When you ride him slow with your chest pressed to his?

That’s when he loses it.

You’ll hear:

“Oh my fucking- damn, baby—”

“Just like that, ride me—ride me slow—”

“You feel too good, I’m gonna cum—”

You want a real noise? Make him cum with your mouth while looking him in the eyes. His growl turns into a choked moan, his hand clenches in your hair, and he pants your name like a confession.

W = Wild Card

He has a fantasy he hasn’t told you yet.

He wants to worship you. Not sexually—emotionally. Physically. Entirely.

One day, he’ll come home from patrol. You’ll be asleep. And he’ll just… undress you slowly and press kisses to every scar, every mark, every soft piece of you.

Then he’ll wake you up by sliding between your thighs and whispering: “I need to feel you. I don’t want sex. I just want you. Can I?”

He wants to be inside you without movement. Just to be close. Just to feel your warmth and heartbeat around him.

He’ll cry into your shoulder while holding you inside, whispering, “You’re the only thing that makes me feel alive.”

It’s more intimate than sex. It’s love incarnate.

X = X-ray

Let’s make this a proper moment.

Length: 7.8–8 inches, maybe a bit more when fully aroused.

Girth: Thick. Stretch-you-out-with-the-tip thick.

Shape: Slight curve upward. Veins. Blunt, flushed head.

Details: Dark hair at the base, trimmed. Slight happy trail. His balls are heavy, sensitive, and he loves when you cup them while going down on him.

You’ve seen it soft in the mornings, tucked against his thigh while his arms are around you. You’ve seen it angry and red, twitching against his stomach when he’s desperate.

It’s pretty, in a rugged, dangerous way—like the rest of him. And he knows exactly how to use it.

Y = Yearning

Aizawa doesn’t need sex daily.

What he craves is:

Your hand on his thigh while he grades.

Your body pressed to his at 2am while the world is quiet.

The sound of your breath hitching when he says your name just right.

But when the yearning hits? It hits like a freight train.

He’ll come home early, kiss your cheek, and whisper, “Need you. Now.” And within minutes, he’s got you pinned to the wall, tongue down your throat, grinding into your heat while moaning your name.

He’ll make love to you like he’s starving. Like he’s dying and you’re the only thing keeping him alive.

Z = Zzz

Aftercare is sacred.

No matter how rough, how sweaty, how loud it was—he will not let you fall asleep alone or messy.

He carries you to the bath if your legs are jelly.

He’ll wash between your thighs with a warm cloth.

“Breathe, baby. You did so well.”

Once you’re clean, he wraps you in his favorite hoodie or a heated blanket, curls around you, and tangles his legs with yours.

He rubs your back. Plays with your hair. Whispers things like: “You’re everything I ever wanted.” “You make me feel whole.”

You fall asleep first. He stays awake watching you, making sure you’re safe. And if he drifts off?

His final breath will be against your skin.

A/N: WAIIIT I LOVE HIM SMMM 😭 Like, this man is EVERYTHING <3 Plagiarism not authorized.

[aeristhinks]

This masterlist has all my writing from 1-13-25 to 2-20-25. These will all be marked as 'Archive' (Old works). For newer works, see MASTERLIST

Forever Second | Corpse Bride Silent Witness | Homicipher Ashes in the Wind The Last Night in the Treehouse Rotten Beauty Hollow Echoes

© 2025 Aeristhinks. Every feathered word belongs to @aeristhinks.

Do NOT replicate, distort, reinterpret, or steal these creations in any form across ANY realm. This includes themes, symbols, and featured sanctuaries.

[aeristhinks]

This masterlist has all my writing from 3-5-2025 up until now - For my archived (old) works, look for MASTERLIST 2.0

Gojo - NSFW Alphabet Toji - NSFW Alphabet Aizawa - NSFW Alphabet

More to come, I PROMISE. © 2025 Aeristhinks. Every feathered word belongs to @aeristhinks.

Do NOT replicate, distort, reinterpret, or steal these creations in any form across ANY realm. This includes themes, symbols, and featured sanctuaries.

[aeristhinks]

NSFW Alphabet – ✮ Gojo Satoru Edition ✮

A = Aftercare

After all is said and done, Gojo is not the type to roll over and pass out immediately. If anything, he’s still wired with energy, watching you with that smirk while you’re completely spent. But don’t be fooled—his aftercare game is elite. He might tease, but he’s insanely attentive when it comes to taking care of you.

Expect lazy kisses, soft touches, and a lot of talking. This man doesn’t shut up, even post-orgasm. He’ll hold you against his chest, fingers idly tracing circles into your skin while he hums some dumb song or rambles about random nonsense like "Do you think I could fight a bear and win? I mean, not just with cursed energy, but like, if it was straight hands?" BOY.

If you’re feeling sore, he’s got you. He’ll massage your legs, rub soothing circles into your back, and even run a warm bath with the good soaps (because yes, this man has expensive-ass taste, don’t ask).

He might be cocky, but there are moments of pure softness, like when he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and murmurs, "Y’know, I really do like you, right?" before kissing your temple. And then immediately ruins the moment by saying, "But damn, you were LOUD. Should I get you a gag next time? Kinda hot."

B = Body part

On himself? His hands and eyes. He knows what his hands are capable of, the way they can tease, grip, and make you melt with just a few precise movements. He also loves that his eyes alone can make you weak in the knees, especially when he’s giving you that look—you know the one.

On you? Your thighs and lips. He has a bad habit of grabbing your thighs at random, whether it’s in public or during intimacy, just to hear you squeak in surprise. And your lips? He’s obsessed. Loves biting, kissing, sucking on them—sometimes just to shut you up when you’re sassing him.

C = Cum

Gojo? Messy as hell. He loves seeing the aftermath of what he did to you—whether it’s on your skin, dripping down your thighs, or filling you up just so he can push it back in with his fingers and smirk.

He’d trace little patterns into it while chuckling, like, "Damn, look at that. I should take a picture—oh, don’t give me that look, I’m kidding… unless?"

If he’s feeling possessive, he loves finishing inside, watching the way it leaks out before tilting your chin up and saying, "Guess you’re really mine now, huh?"

D = Dirty secret

Oh, you know he has some filthy secrets locked away in that pretty head of his.

He’s 100% thought about using his Limitless in creative ways. Holding you in place without actually touching you? Restraining your hands midair while he has his way with you? Yeah, he’s fantasized about it a lot.

Also, he loves seeing you flustered or embarrassed. If you ever send him a risky pic or a flirty text? Expect him to drag it out, bringing it up at the most inconvenient times just to watch you squirm.

E = Experience

Mans is SEASONED. He’s been around, and he knows exactly what he’s doing.

He can tell just by your breathing what you like, where you’re sensitive, and what makes you tick.

He’s dangerously good with dirty talk, and his teasing is second nature.

He has no shame, which makes things even worse (or better, depending on how you look at it).

F = Favorite position

Missionary, but with your legs over his shoulders—he wants to see everything. The way you gasp, the way your back arches, the way your hands claw at the sheets? Perfection.

Backshots, but with his hand wrapped around your throat, tilting your head back so he can whisper, "You feel that? That's all mine." (HELP.)

He lowkey loves riding positions too, because seeing you struggle to keep up while he leans back and enjoys the show? Chef’s kiss.

G = Goofy (is he more serious in the moment? is he humorous? etc.)

Gojo Satoru is a certified pervert in every aspect of life, and that includes the bedroom. This man will not let you have a peaceful, serious moment without throwing in some smart-ass comment, a joke, or straight-up trolling you.

Random commentary mid-thrust? Absolutely. "If I don’t put my blindfold back on, does this count as a handicap?" SIR, PLEASE.

He also 100% fake moans at least once just to mess with you. And when you glare at him? He’s grinning like the little shit he is.

But don’t get it twisted—when he wants to be serious? He flips the switch.

The teasing stops, the jokes are gone, and suddenly he’s whispering filth into your ear, holding your chin up so you look him in the eyes.

Gojo loves to play, but when he’s serious? Game over.

H = Hair (how well groomed is he? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Gojo is well-groomed, but not in a "I shave everything down to nothing" kinda way. He keeps things trimmed and neat but still has that natural, masculine look.

And yes, the carpet definitely matches the drapes—which means you’re getting that white-haired, ethereal beauty in all aspects. 😏

I = Intimacy (how is he during the moment? the romantic aspect)

While Gojo is a teasing, cocky bastard, when it comes to someone he truly cares about? He has a soft side.

He’s the type to stroke your hair, kiss your forehead, and murmur soft praises while still completely wrecking you.

He loves holding you close, whispering in your ear about how good you feel, how much he loves watching you like this.

But he’s also the type to smirk at your flustered expression and kiss you slow, making you feel like you’re the only thing that matters.

Eye contact is EVERYTHING to him. He wants to see your reactions, watch you lose yourself in pleasure, and let you know just how much control he has over you.

At the end of the day, Gojo might joke around, but when he’s with someone he truly loves? He makes them feel like the center of the universe.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Oh, he absolutely does it—frequently. But ONLY when he’s thinking about you.

If you’re not around? He’ll replay memories of you together, maybe even pull up a spicy picture you sent him.

If he’s desperate? He’ll call you while doing it, just to hear your voice. And if you sound the slightest bit flustered? That gets him off even faster.

K = Kink (one or more of his kinks)

Oh, Gojo has a laundry list of kinks. Let’s break it down:

Teasing & Edging – If you’re impatient, he’s making it worse. He lives to hear you beg.

Bondage & Restraints – He has a special kink for using his Infinity to hold you in place. Hands-free teasing? Expect it.

Praise + Degradation – One second he’s whispering, "That’s my good girl." The next? "So needy, falling apart over just my fingers? Cute."

Overstimulation – He’s relentless. He won’t stop until you’re a trembling, overstimulated mess.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Gojo is reckless as hell, so he’s down to try anywhere.

His absolute favorite? Against a mirror. He wants you to watch yourself.

Semi-public places? Yeah, he likes the risk. Whether it’s a secluded alley, a locked office, or even just a quiet hallway where someone could walk in? He thrives on the thrill.

But when he’s feeling sentimental? The bed—so he can hold you close, take his time, and make you feel every second of it.

M = Motivation (what turns him on, gets him going)

Gojo has a high ass drive, so it doesn’t take much to get him going. But some surefire ways?

Bratting on purpose. If you’re being defiant, sassy, or giving him attitude? Oh, he’ll fix that real quick.

Tight clothes. Seeing you in something that hugs your figure just right? Ruins his focus completely.

Hearing you moan his name. Whether you’re whispering it sweetly or whimpering it in desperation? Immediate reaction.

N = No (something he wouldn’t do, turn-offs, etc.)

Listen, Gojo might be reckless and a little insane, but he has his limits. Here’s what he’s absolutely NOT about:

Non-consensual anything? HARD NO. He thrives on control and teasing, but if you’re not into something? It’s not happening. He’ll push limits if you want, but he’d never actually make you uncomfortable.

Genuinely hurting you. He loves rough play, but he’s not into actual pain beyond light spanking, biting, or hair-pulling. He wants to wreck you, not injure you.

Complete submission. He likes control, but he also enjoys a challenge. If you just give in without a fight, it’s no fun for him. He likes when you brat back, push his buttons, and force him to put you in your place.

Anything boring or routine. If it’s the same thing every time? He’s not interested. This man needs variety, excitement, and a little bit of chaos to keep things interesting.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Gojo Satoru is a pervert in all ways, but when it comes to oral? He is lethal.

Giving:

He loves eating you out. Loves it. Gets off on it.

Tongue game? Insane. His lips and tongue work you over like he’s trying to prove a point.

He will drag it out, making you beg, making you shake, and then stopping JUST when you think you're close.

He enjoys eye contact while doing it, smirking when you look down at him with that pleading, desperate expression.

And the worst part? He MOANS into you just to send vibrations through your body. He knows exactly what he’s doing. 😭

Receiving:

He loves it, but he loves making you work for it even more.

He’s the type to lean back, half-lidded gaze, smirking down at you like a king on his throne.

He will praise you the whole time. "That’s it, just like that—good girl." "Look at you, taking me so well." "Think you can handle a little more?" RUDE.

Pulling your hair? Holding your chin? Thrusting just a little deeper to make you gag? Yeah. Yeah, he does that.

P = Pace (is he fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

It depends. If he’s feeling teasing and in control? He goes slow, deep, deliberate—dragging it out just to watch you squirm.

But if you push him too far, brat too much, or get him riled up? Oh, he’s flipping you over and pounding you into the mattress like it’s his mission in life.

He knows how to make you feel every second of it. Deep strokes, teasing pull-backs, sudden slams that knock the breath out of you.

And when you’re on the edge, begging? He slows down just to make you suffer.

"What’s the rush, sweetheart? You wanted to act tough—so take it."

Q = Quickie (his opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Gojo loves quickies. He thrives off the thrill of almost getting caught, doing it somewhere semi-public, and making it quick but intense.

Pinned against a wall, hands gripping your thighs, whispering absolute filth in your ear? Oh yeah.

After a long mission, sneaking into the training room, in his office when he should be working? He lives for it.

And the best part? He acts 100% normal after.

Meanwhile, you’re struggling to walk straight, and he’s over here fixing his hair like nothing happened.

R = Risk (is he game to experiment? does he take risks? etc.)

Gojo Satoru is the definition of a reckless thrill-seeker. If there’s a chance of getting caught, breaking a rule, or pushing boundaries, he’s already ten steps ahead, dragging you into it with a smirk.

Semi-public? Oh, he lives for it. But he’s not stupid—his Infinity ensures no one will actually see or hear a thing.

“Go on. Let them walk by. They have no idea what I’m doing to you right now.” Yeah. He’s the worst.

Using his abilities during sex? Oh, absolutely. He loves showing off.

He’ll bind your wrists with his Limitless technique, keeping you completely helpless beneath him.

Or worse? He’ll keep just enough of his Infinity active so you can’t quite touch him—until he decides to let you.

"You wanna grab me? Too bad. Guess you'll just have to take what I give you." 😏

Experimenting with new things? Oh, he’s down for anything. Bring up a kink, a fantasy, a new position? He’s already grinning, dragging you into his lap.

“Oh? You wanna try that? Why not?”

S = Stamina (how many rounds can he go for? how long does he last?)

It’s unfair. UNFAIR.

Gojo doesn’t get tired like normal people. He is literally the strongest, a man built for endurance, power, and precision.

Multiple rounds? Easily.

Hours? Absolutely.

And the worst part? He still has energy afterwards.

You’re dead, panting, legs shaking—and this man? He’s rolling onto his side, smirking, twirling your hair around his fingers like nothing happened.

“You good? Need some water? No? Alright, so round five, then?” 😭

His recovery time? Practically nonexistent. He’ll mess you up, take a few deep breaths, then he’s hard again like it’s nothing.

And if you’re too tired? He’ll just lay back, letting you do whatever you want—grinning, arms behind his head, looking like the king of the world.

T = Toys (does he own toys? does he use them? on a partner or himself?)

Gojo doesn’t NEED toys. His hands, mouth, and stamina are already a problem.

But does he use them to tease you? Oh, you’re in trouble.

A vibrator? He’ll hold it against you, playing with the settings, watching you squirm.

And if he’s feeling particularly evil? He’ll edge you with it. Over. And over. Again.

"Aww, you wanna cum? Beg for it."

Handcuffs? Blindfolds? He likes taking away one of your senses just to heighten the experience.

And if you ever use something on him? Oh, you just unlocked a whole new monster.

Try tying him up? Sitting on top of him, holding him down? He’ll let you—for a while.

But the second he gets control again? He’s flipping you over, pinning you down, and making you regret ever challenging him.

U = Unfair (how much he likes to tease)

MAXIMUM TEASE.

There is no winning. You will NEVER win.

He enjoys the struggle. The bratting. The resistance. Because then? He gets to break you down.

He will drag things out to make you desperate.

If you reach for him, he moves back.

If you try to grind against him, he holds your hips still.

If you beg? He pretends he didn’t hear it.

And his dirty talk? Absolutely lethal.

“Look at you. Already shaking, and I haven’t even touched you yet.”

“Say you need me. No? Alright, I can wait.”

V = Volume (how loud he is, what sounds he makes, etc.)

Oh, he is NOT quiet.

This man is a problem. He groans, grunts, moans, and whispers absolute filth in your ear.

His worst habit? He laughs.

You’re wrecked beneath him, and he’s just chuckling under his breath, watching you struggle.

And when he loses control? That’s when you really hear it.

Deep, desperate groans, ragged breathing, gasps when he’s close.

And if you’re really good? He’ll let out breathy whimpers right in your ear.

W = Wild card (random headcanon for Gojo)

He WILL call you while he’s away just to tease you.

“Miss me? What if I told you I was thinking about you right now?”

He loves watching you lose control.

If you’re usually composed, reserved, or shy? It drives him insane when he can break you down.

He can and will send you the most unhinged texts.

No shame. No hesitation. Just chaotic thirst.

He gets turned on by making you flustered.

Kissing your neck in public? Whispering in your ear just to see you squirm? Oh, he loves it.

X = X-ray (what’s under the clothes? Inches, girth, sensitivity, etc.)

Let’s be real. This man is BUILT. Tall, lean muscle, long legs—and everything is proportional.

Size?

Soft: A solid 5-5.5 inches, hanging heavy even when he’s not hard.

Hard: A ridiculous 8.5-9 inches, thick, with a slight upward curve. (Life-ruining levels.)

Girth? Think two fingers barely touching when wrapped around it. Full, veiny, with that perfect stretch.

Sensitivity?

The tip is where you’ll wreck him. That’s his weak spot.

He won’t admit it, but the second you start teasing the head with your tongue or slow strokes? His breathing changes IMMEDIATELY.

The veins? Oh, run your tongue along them, and he’ll growl low in his throat.

Appearance?

Thick, smooth, flushed pink at the tip when he’s hard, veins subtly running along the shaft.

Neatly groomed, with a light happy trail that disappears under his waistband.

And the worst part? He KNOWS how to use it.

Angles? He has them mastered.

Deep strokes? Slow teasing? He’ll adjust his pace just to make you lose control first.

If you’re cocky? If you try to tease him first? He’ll pin you down, smirking, taking his time until you’re the one begging.

Y = Yearning (how high is his sex drive?)

Absolutely ridiculous. Unfair. God-tier levels of stamina and need.

This man is ready at all times. Morning? Afternoon? Middle of the night? In between missions?

One look from you, one teasing remark? He’s already got that glint in his eye.

He will grab your waist, press against you, whisper something filthy in your ear—just to see you react.

How bad does it get?

If you deny him? If you tease but don’t follow through? He gets restless. Touchy. Irritated.

He’ll drag you onto his lap, roll his hips up, and make it very clear exactly what he wants.

And if you try to outlast him? Good luck. You will NOT win.

He will push you, tease you, break you down until YOU are the one throwing yourself at him.

Z = Zzz (how quickly he falls asleep afterward)

Gojo is ANNOYING.

You? DEAD. Wrecked. Laying there, trying to remember how to breathe.

Him? Smirking, running a hand through his hair like he just finished a workout. (Because it barely drained him.)

He’s still got energy. HE COULD GO AGAIN. 😭

Does he eventually pass out?

Only if YOU knock out first.

He’ll pull you against him, big arms wrapping around you, chin resting on your head.

He plays with your hair, presses lazy kisses to your forehead, whispers something cocky before finally dozing off.

If HE falls asleep first?

You’re NOT escaping. This man sleeps like a giant cat, fully wrapped around you, legs tangled, arms locked.

You try to move? He instinctively pulls you back in.

You’re stuck. Accept your fate.

Plagiarism not authorized.

[aeristhinks]

NSFW Alphabet - ☾ Toji Fushiguro Edition ☾

A = Aftercare (How He Treats You After)

Toji doesn’t do “soft and gentle”—but don’t let him fool you. He’s got his own way of showing he cares, even if he acts like he doesn’t.

After leaving you wrecked, breathless, and unable to move, he’s not about to get all mushy on you. Expect a smug smirk and a cocky remark like, “Damn, you look fucked out. Can’t even move, huh?”

But if you’re really exhausted? He’ll pull you into his chest, one arm draped over you, acting like it’s just because he’s tired—NOT because he actually wants to hold you. (Lies.)

He’s secretly observant. If he sees you sore or struggling the next day? He’ll just shake his head like, “Tch, weak.” But his hands are still on your hips, massaging you absentmindedly.

If you actually fall asleep right after? He won’t wake you—but he’s watching for a second.

B = Body Part (Favorite Non-Innocent Parts)

On himself? His arms and hands.

He knows his arms and hands are veiny, strong, and huge—he uses them to manhandle and hold you down.

Loves gripping your throat lightly, watching your eyes widen.

On you?

Neck → Loves leaving bite marks. It’s never just one—it’s a whole damn crime scene.

Thighs → He’s gripping them, pinning them, spreading them—his hands are always there.

Hips → This man leaves fingerprints. You’ll be feeling that grip for days.

C = Cum (All Things Messy)

Inside is his favorite. No question.

He doesn’t care about consequences—the thought of filling you up, watching it drip out? That gets him going.

If not inside? He’s painting your stomach, thighs, chest, or even your face.

Loves making you swallow. And he’ll watch every second of it.

“Go on, open up. That’s a good girl.”

D = Dirty Secret (Something He’d Never Admit)

He gets off on the risk. Public places? Thin walls? Someone in the next room? He loves that shit.

“Keep quiet, sweetheart. Unless you want them to hear you.”

Lowkey loves when you struggle just a little. Not in a cruel way—he just enjoys overpowering you and watching you finally give in.

E = Experience (How Good Is He?)

Too good. This man has been around, he knows exactly what he’s doing.

He knows how to read your body better than you do. You’re not walking away unsatisfied. Ever.

If you try to act tough, play hard to get? That only makes him more interested.

F = Favorite Positions

Full Nelson → Holding you up like you weigh nothing, letting gravity do the work.

Backshots → Gripping your hips like a damn steering wheel.

Face-to-face, one leg over his shoulder → He’s watching every expression, smirking when you break.

G = Goofy? (Humor vs. Seriousness)

Not goofy—he’s a pervert.

Taunts the hell out of you.

“Tired already? Thought you said you could handle me.”

If you whine or beg? Oh, he’s eating that up.

H = Hair (Grooming Habits, Carpet Matching Drapes, etc.)

Toji doesn’t put much effort into grooming, but somehow, he still looks perfect in that rugged, untamed way.

Thick, dark, coarse. Just like the hair on his head, his body hair is natural, masculine, and well-kept—but not overly groomed.

He doesn’t shave everything bare—he trims, but leaves enough that it still looks natural.

Does the carpet match the drapes? Yep. Same dark color, same coarse texture.

Happy trail? Absolutely. That deep V-line leading down his stomach is something sculpted by the gods.

Hair on his chest? A little—but not too much. Just enough to remind you that he’s all man.

I = Intimacy (The Romantic Aspect)

Toji isn’t the flowers and love letters type. He’s a man who shows his emotions through actions, not words.

He’s not “soft,” but he’s passionate. He doesn’t do slow, tender love-making—but the intensity? That’s where the emotion is.

Eye contact is everything. He’s watching every little reaction, memorizing exactly what drives you crazy.

Silent affection. He won’t say, “I love you.” But he pulls you close afterward, lets you sleep against him, grips your thigh possessively even in his sleep.

His version of romance? Leaving you so wrecked, you can still feel him the next day.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation Headcanon)

Toji doesn’t jerk off often. He prefers the real thing, and his sex drive is too high to be satisfied by his own hand.

If he does? It’s because he hasn’t seen you in a while.

Quick, rough, and dirty. No slow teasing—he grips himself tight, gets straight to the point, and finishes hard.

His thoughts while doing it? You. Bent over, under him, taking it, begging for more.

K = Kinks (What Gets Him Off?)

Toji is dangerously into power dynamics and control. He loves pushing limits, seeing how far you can go before you break.

Primal Play → The chase, the struggle, the power imbalance. He loves when you pretend to resist, knowing damn well you want it.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Don’t act like you don’t want this.”

Breeding Kink → Even if he doesn’t want kids, the idea of filling you up, knowing you’re dripping with him afterward? That makes him feral.

Overstimulation → He loves making you beg for a break, just to see how much you can take.

Edging → He’ll get you so close, then stop—just to hear you whine for more.

L = Location (Favorite Places to Do It)

Toji does not care about “appropriate” places. If he’s in the mood, he’s taking you right then and there.

Alleyways → Dark, hidden spots where anyone could walk by at any second.

Backseat of his car → Windows fogged up, one leg over his shoulder.

Against the wall of a dressing room, hand over your mouth to keep you quiet.

Your place, his place? Too easy. He wants somewhere risky, somewhere new.

M = Motivation (What Turns Him On?)

Toji gets turned on by the power he has over you.

Playing hard to get. The second you pretend to resist? Oh, he’s all in.

Hearing you whimper or beg. It’s music to his ears.

Seeing the aftermath. If you’re sore the next day? Covered in marks? That’s his masterpiece.

N = No (What He Wouldn’t Do, Hard Limits, Turn-Offs)

Toji isn’t some soft, romantic, candlelit lover. He’s feral, dominant, and a little sadistic, but he does have limits.

He’s not into anything overly submissive. Do not expect him to play the obedient, soft lover—he’s here to take, not be taken.

Won’t do anything “gross” (no extreme bodily fluids). He likes things dirty, but not that dirty.

No “roleplay” where he’s forced to be vulnerable or weak. He lives for control. The second he feels like he’s not the one in charge? He’s out.

However—his limits are pretty damn loose. If you’re into something a little risky, a little wild? He’s probably already five steps ahead, pushing you to see how far you’ll go.

O = Oral (Giving vs. Receiving, Skills, Preferences)

Toji is a menace when it comes to oral—both giving and receiving.

— Giving?

Oh, you’re in for absolute destruction.

He loves making a mess. He’s not going slow, he’s not being gentle—he’s going all in.

Tongue? Deep. Fast. Relentless. You don’t get to breathe, you don’t get to think—he’s keeping you right at the edge.

His hands are never idle. One on your thigh, the other teasing exactly where you need it.

Your legs WILL be shaking. He won’t stop until you’re literally pulling away from overstimulation.

— Receiving?

Toji expects it. And he makes sure you enjoy it.

He’ll lean back, spread his legs, guide your pace with his hand in your hair.

Loves eye contact. If you look up at him while doing it? You’ll get a deep, dark groan that will ruin you.

Lazy dominance. He lets you work for it, but if you tease too much? He’ll grab your chin, force you deeper, and take over.

He’s vocal. Low groans, curses, dirty talk. You’ll know exactly how good you’re doing.

P = Pace (Fast, Slow, Rough, Gentle?)

Toji is not a slow and sensual kind of guy.

Fast, rough, deep. He doesn’t ease you into it—he stretches you out and makes sure you feel every inch.

Relentless stamina. He doesn’t stop until you’re absolutely wrecked.

He can be controlled, but never gentle. Even if he starts slow, it’s just to tease before he ruins you.

Q = Quickies (Does He Like Them? How Often?)

Lives for them. Doesn’t need a full setup—if he’s in the mood, it’s happening.

Anywhere, anytime. In an alley, the backseat of his car, up against a wall—he doesn’t care as long as he gets what he wants.

The thrill turns him on. Knowing he could get caught? That just makes it better.

R = Risk (How Adventurous Is He?)

Toji is dangerously adventurous.

Public places? Done it.

New positions? Always trying them.

Pushing your limits? That’s his specialty.

He gets off on seeing how much you can handle. If you tell him you “can’t take anymore”? Oh, you just challenged him.

S = Stamina (How Many Rounds? How Long Does He Last?)

Multiple rounds. He won’t stop until he’s sure you’re completely done.

Doesn’t need much recovery time. You could fall asleep and wake up to him ready for more.

If you think one round is enough? You’re underestimating him.

T = Toys (Does He Own Them? Does He Use Them?)

Toji doesn’t need them—but he’ll use them if it means teasing you more.

Vibrators? He’ll hold it against you until you’re crying for him to stop.

Handcuffs? If he wants full control, he’s tying you up.

But on himself? Never. He doesn’t need toys—he’s more than enough on his own.

U = Unfair (How Much Does He Tease?)

Ruthless.

Loves edging you just to hear you beg.

If you try to rush him? He’ll slow down even more, just to make you suffer.

V = Volume (How Loud Is He? What Sounds Does He Make?)

Toji isn’t the type to be obnoxiously loud, but every sound he makes is absolutely sinful.

Low, deep groans that sound like they’re coming straight from his chest.

Gravelly whispers right against your ear. His voice is already deep—but when he’s in the moment? It gets even lower, even rougher.

Heavy breathing, deep growls when he’s really into it.

Filthy dirty talk.

“That’s it, baby. Look at you, making a mess all over me.”

“You wanted this, didn’t you? Now take it.”

“Not enough, huh? I’ll make sure you can’t walk tomorrow.”

Grunting in frustration if he’s holding back. If he’s trying not to finish too soon, he’ll curse under his breath and grip your hips harder.

Loves hearing your sounds, too. The more noise you make? The more feral he gets.

W = Wild Card (Random NSFW Headcanon)

Toji has a serious thing for watching you come undone.

If there’s a mirror nearby, he’s putting you in front of it.

“Look at yourself. See how good you take it?”

Loves leaving marks—hickeys, scratches, bite marks.

Gets possessive after. If you go out after he wrecks you? He’ll smirk when he sees you limping.

“You’re walking funny, sweetheart. Wonder whose fault that is?”

X = X-Ray (Size, Shape, & Everything in Between)

Toji is absolutely packing, and he knows it.

Easily 8 inches, thick, and veiny.

**A slight curve that hits just right. **

Heavy, warm, and dripping arousal before he even slides in.

You will feel it for days. No, seriously—you’ll wake up sore and still feel the ghost of him inside you.

Loves watching your reaction the first time you take him.

“C’mon, baby, don’t tell me that’s too much. You can handle it.”

Y = Yearning (How High Is His Sex Drive?)

Toji has a dangerously high sex drive.

It’s not just about the act—it’s about control, dominance, and power.

If you can’t keep up? You better learn fast.

He could go every night and still want more.

Morning, noon, and night—he doesn’t have a “limit.”

If he hasn’t seen you in a while? Be prepared to be absolutely ruined.

Z = Zzz (How Quickly Does He Fall Asleep After?)

Toji doesn’t immediately pass out—he likes to admire the mess he made first.

Runs a lazy hand down your body, feeling the aftermath.

Smirks to himself, knowing he left you completely wrecked.

When he does sleep? He’s out cold. Deadweight.

You could shake him, yell his name—he’s not waking up.

But if you try to leave the bed? His arm will tighten around you in his sleep.

Plagiarism not authorized.

[aeristhinks]

Hollow Echoes

TW/CW: Grief, loss of a loved one, emotional distress, implied death, loneliness, existential themes. Synopsis: Larry was your safe place, your anchor in a world that never stopped pulling you under. Now, all that’s left of him is memories—whispers of laughter in an empty treehouse and the fading scent of cigarettes on his hoodie. As you sit alone in the place you once shared, grief claws at your chest, an unbearable weight that refuses to lift.

The wind howled through the rusted metal of the treehouse, shaking the fragile structure like a whispered warning. It had always been a sanctuary, a place where you and Larry could escape the crushing weight of reality. But now, it was just another place haunted by memories—ghosts of laughter, of late-night conversations, of a bond so deep it felt carved into your very bones.

But Larry was gone.

You sat in the dim light, the old wooden planks creaking beneath you. His hoodie was still draped over the makeshift couch, the scent of cigarettes and cheap cologne clinging to the fabric. You ran your fingers over it, as if touching it would somehow bring him back.

Your chest ached, an unbearable weight pressing down as you stared at the empty space beside you. It used to be filled with him—his warmth, his stupid jokes, the way he could make you feel safe even when the world was falling apart. Now, it was just an empty void, a gaping wound that would never heal.

"You promised," your voice cracked, barely above a whisper. "You said we'd always be together."

The silence mocked you. The wind continued to howl, but it carried no response, no comfort. Just a reminder of everything you had lost.

Tears burned down your cheeks, hot and relentless. You weren’t sure how long you sat there, lost in the agony of his absence, but the world kept moving—uncaring, indifferent.

The stars blinked overhead, distant and cold, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was somewhere among them, watching. If he regretted leaving. If he missed you the way you missed him.

Or if, in the end, you had just been another fleeting moment in a life filled with pain.

You curled into yourself, clutching his hoodie as if it could replace him, as if it could make the ache in your chest subside.

But nothing ever would.

Plagiarism not authorized.

[aeristhinks]

Rotten Beauty

TW / CW: Death, Grief, Self-loathing, suicidal ideation, emotional distress, major character loss, existential dread. Synopsis: Gyutaro has always known suffering, but nothing compares to the crushing loneliness of losing Daki. With nothing left but the weight of his regrets, he reflects on his wretched existence, tormented by the memories of the only person who ever loved him. In a world that never wanted him, Gyutaro is left to wonder—was his struggle ever worth it, or was he doomed from the start?

The night was cold, biting against his scarred skin like a cruel reminder. Gyutaro sat alone in the ruins of a forgotten village, watching the moonlight shimmer against the stagnant water of a broken well. The stench of decay filled his nose, but he had long stopped minding such things. His thoughts wandered, twisting in a spiral of pain and regret.

He was born unwanted. A wretched creature with sunken eyes and a voice that grated like shattered glass. They called him filth, a rat crawling through the gutters of a city that would never love him. His only salvation had been Ume—his little sister, his only light. She had been born beautiful, radiant in ways he could never be, a flower that somehow grew from the filth. He had done everything for her. Killed for her. Died for her.

And yet, what had it amounted to?

Gyutaro clenched his fists, sharp nails digging into his own flesh. The ache was dull compared to the weight in his chest. He had promised her everything. That they would be together, that no one would ever harm her again. But wasn’t he the one who had failed her first? If he had been stronger, faster, smarter—would she have ever suffered? Would she have burned, screaming his name while he lay broken and useless in the dirt?

His body trembled. A choked, ugly sound crawled from his throat.

Daki was gone.

For the first time since their miserable existence began, Gyutaro was alone. And what was he without her? A monster without a purpose, a disease without a host. He had spent centuries fighting, devouring, clawing through the filth just to keep her safe, but none of it mattered anymore. She was gone, ripped away from him by the same cruel world that had taken everything before.

He reached out, fingers curling in the empty space beside him, as if expecting to find her warmth. But there was nothing. Only the hollow silence, the ache in his chest deepening into something unbearable.

Tears burned in his eyes, a useless human reaction he thought he had long abandoned. He wanted to scream, to rip himself apart and disappear into nothingness. Because at the end of everything, there was no revenge, no redemption—only this crushing emptiness.

For the first time in his wretched life, Gyutaro wished he had never been born.

Plagiarism not authorized.

[aeristhinks]

The Last Night in the Treehouse

TW / CW: Suicide, depression, substance abuse, major character death, grief Synopsis: The treehouse was supposed to be their safe haven. A place of laughter, of escape, of memories too good to be forgotten. But for Larry, it had become something else—his final resting place. One last drink. One final decision. And in the morning, Sal is left to pick up the shattered pieces of a world that no longer includes his best friend. The police call it a tragedy. The town moves on. But Sal can’t. Not when Larry’s voice still lingers in the air, in the wood of the treehouse, in the silence of a world that suddenly feels too empty. Larry was gone. And Sal didn’t know how to exist without him.

The treehouse had always been his sanctuary.

Built with his dad’s hands, reinforced with his own, it had stood through storms, fights, and nights spent hiding from the world. This place had been filled with laughter once. With dumb jokes and quiet confessions under a star-strewn sky.

Now, it was just wood and nails. A coffin in the trees.

Larry sat against the wall, knees pulled up, bottle dangling between his fingers. The alcohol sloshed inside, catching the dim glow of the streetlights below. His stomach churned, his throat burned, but he took another swig anyway.

The taste was bitter. Like regret.

He stared out at the town, at the rows of houses that all looked the same. Dull yellow lights glowing behind half-closed curtains. People inside, warm and safe, wrapped up in their meaningless little lives.

He wondered if any of them knew how hard it was to keep going.

A soft laugh escaped his lips, hollow and dry. Probably not. They had jobs, families, plans. They had something to look forward to. Larry? He had this.

The cold bite of the wind. The ache in his chest. The little baggie of crushed-up promises sitting next to him.

"Just a little, man, and you won’t feel a thing."

He ran his fingers over the plastic, his breath unsteady. He hadn’t planned for it to be tonight. He hadn’t planned anything, really. But wasn’t that the problem? He had no future. No purpose. Just the same endless cycle of waking up, pretending he was okay, and drowning under the weight of everything he couldn’t say.

He tried. God, he tried.

For his mom, for Sal.

But it wasn’t enough.

It was never enough.

His eyes flickered to the Polaroid pinned to the wall. Him and Sal, grinning like idiots. It was old, edges curled from the years, but the memory was still sharp. That day had been perfect. Sneaking out, stealing snacks from the gas station, lying in the grass for hours talking about the universe like they weren’t just two nobodies in a town that forgot they existed.

Larry swallowed hard, his vision blurring.

“I’m sorry, dude…”

He meant it. More than anything. If he could take one thing with him, it would be that—how sorry he was.

Sorry for leaving Sal alone. Sorry for being too weak. Sorry for making this his last memory of him.

His fingers trembled as he unscrewed the cap, pouring the powder into the remaining swig of alcohol. It dissolved instantly, disappearing into the liquid like it had never been there at all.

Larry stared at it.

Would it hurt?

Would it be fast?

Would he feel himself slipping away, or would it just… stop?

He closed his eyes, gripping the bottle tighter.

He hoped it would be quiet.

He tipped his head back and drank.

The Next Morning

The sky was a dull, lifeless gray when Sal got the call.

His brain refused to process the words, refused to make sense of the frantic voice on the other end. Something about an emergency. About his best friend. About the treehouse.

He ran.

Didn’t think. Didn’t breathe.

The treehouse was swarming with cops when he got there.

The tape around the base of the tree flapped in the wind, bright yellow against the dead leaves. His stomach lurched. He already knew. He already knew—

But he shoved past them anyway.

Pushed through the hands trying to hold him back.

Climbed the ladder on shaking limbs, his breath ragged and sharp.

And then he saw it.

The empty bottle.

The crumpled note.

Larry’s body.

Sal’s knees buckled. The world tilted sideways, collapsing under the weight of something irreparable.

His best friend—his brother—was gone.

He was gone.

Sal crawled forward, hands shaking so hard he could barely hold the note. The ink was smudged in places, stained with something dark. Maybe water. Maybe tears.

"Sal," it read.

"I'm sorry. Please don't blame yourself and please don't hate me. I was lucky to have you in my life."

A sound tore from Sal’s throat—something raw, something broken. His vision blurred, but he refused to look away.

Larry’s hoodie was rumpled, his fingers still curled slightly, as if he’d only just drifted off to sleep. But he wasn’t asleep. He wasn’t anything anymore.

Sal reached for him anyway.

Shook his shoulder.

"Larry…?" His voice cracked.

Nothing.

His chest tightened, breath coming in short gasps.

He was too late.

He had been right here, and he was too late.

Tears burned down his face as he crumpled over his best friend, pressing his forehead against Larry’s shoulder like it would bring him back, like he could warm him up again.

But the body beneath him was cold.

And Sal had never felt so alone in his life.

Aftermath

The treehouse was abandoned after that.

The cops took what they needed. The town whispered. But in the end, Larry’s death was just another sad story in a place already filled with them.

People moved on.

Sal didn’t.

He stopped going to class. Stopped talking.

He read the note over and over until the words lost their meaning. He traced over their names carved in the wood until his fingers bled.

And every night, he dreamed of the treehouse.

Dreamed of Larry sitting there, bottle in hand, staring at the stars with that stupid half-smirk.

"Sal… you ever wonder what happens after all this?"

The words echoed, a ghost of a memory that refused to leave.

And every morning, Sal woke up to the same suffocating truth—

Larry was gone.

And nothing could bring him back.

Plagiarism not authorized.

[aeristhinks]

Ashes in the Wind

TW / CW: Grief, mourning, character death, violence, battle aftermath, blood/injury mention Synopsis: The battle is over. The city is safe. The villain is dead. But for Bakugo, this isn’t a victory—it’s a loss he can never undo. Kneeling in the rubble, his hands trembling as they clutch a body that will never move again, he grapples with the unbearable weight of failure. His screams are swallowed by the wind, his pleas met with silence. They promised they’d make it. They lied. And now, Bakugo is left in the wreckage, staring at a world that feels emptier than ever.

The battlefield was silent now. The sky, painted with smoke and fading embers, stretched endlessly above the ruins. The air smelled of burnt debris and something metallic—blood, maybe. But Bakugo barely noticed. He was on his knees, fingers curled into the dirt, trembling with exhaustion, rage, and something far worse.

He had won.

At least, that’s what they’d call it. The villain was dead. The city was saved. The people could sleep soundly tonight, knowing their heroes had done their job. But Bakugo couldn’t feel the victory. He couldn’t feel anything except the unbearable weight in his chest, crushing him, suffocating him.

Because he had lost.

“Damn it…” his voice cracked, barely above a whisper. His hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms until he felt the sting of broken skin. He welcomed the pain. It was real. It was something.

He turned his head slowly, as if moving too fast would make it worse. But it was already worse. The sight in front of him was burned into his mind. A figure lay motionless on the ground, their uniform torn, their body too still, too quiet.

Bakugo had seen death before. But not like this. Not like—

“No,” he choked out. His body moved on instinct, crawling forward, shaking hands reaching out. He pressed his palm against their chest. No rise. No fall. Just stillness.

He couldn’t breathe.

“You’re gonna get up,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “I don’t care if you’re hurt, you’re gonna get up. Right now.”

Silence.

Bakugo clenched his teeth, a fresh wave of emotion crashing over him. “You hear me, dumbass?” His voice rose, cracking at the edges. “You’re not— You’re not done yet!” He grabbed their shoulders, shaking them, but their body just slumped forward like a puppet with its strings cut.

His breath hitched. His vision blurred. He shook harder.

“Come on,” he whispered now, voice raw. “Please.”

The silence swallowed him whole.

He let out a broken sound, something between a sob and a snarl, and pulled them into his arms. They weren’t supposed to die. He was supposed to protect them. He was supposed to—

Bakugo squeezed his eyes shut, gripping them tighter. “You promised,” he whispered, forehead pressing against theirs. “You… you promised we’d make it.”

The wind howled around him, carrying the smell of ash and destruction. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed, but they felt worlds away. It didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered.

Because they were gone.

And Bakugo had never felt so empty.

Plagiarism not authorized.

[aeristhinks]

Silent Witness | Homicipher

TW/CW: Gore, violence, body horror, death, blood, injury, helplessness, panic, pursuit, horror themes, psychological distress, grief, and implied trauma. Synopsis: Trapped in a nightmarish labyrinth of crumbling walls and endless corridors, a desperate survivor flees from the relentless pursuit of Mr. Machete—a monstrous figure whose blade sings a song of inevitable death. Every turn, every slammed door, only delays the hunt, not stops it. Their only hope lies in Mr. Crawling, an eerie yet strangely protective companion who moves with unsettling grace in the darkness.

You run. The air is thick with tension as you sprint down the narrow corridors of the place. The sound of your own ragged breathing fills your ears, nearly drowning out the menacing clank of heavy boots behind you. Mr. Machete is relentless, his low growls and the scraping of his weapon against the walls reminding you just how close he is. You’ve lost count of how many turns you’ve taken, how many doors you’ve slammed behind you, but nothing seems to deter him.

Your chest burns as you push yourself further, desperate to escape. Mr. Crawling was with you earlier, his familiar presence a comfort amidst the chaos, but somewhere along the way, you got separated. Panic bubbles up in your chest at the thought of him, lost or worse, but you can’t afford to stop now. Survival is all that matters.

You risk a glance over your shoulder, heart hammering in your chest as the shadows twist and distort in the dim light. Big Mistake.

Your foot catches on something—a jagged, loose piece of debris—and you fall. Hard. Your head collides with a cement wall, sending a sharp, white-hot pain shooting through your skull. Stars dance in your blurred vision as you groan, struggling to orient yourself. Everything feels off—distant, unreal, like the world is tilting beneath you. No, no, no… you think, trying to force your trembling limbs to move. But they don’t obey, and your body feels heavy, sluggish. And then you see him—Mr. Crawling.

Relief floods you at the sight of his long, spindly limbs and his unsettlingly familiar presence. You’ve always found comfort in his strange, protective nature. “Help me,” you rasp, your voice barely audible over the pounding in your head. “Please.”

He skitters toward you, his limbs moving with frantic urgency, and for a brief moment, you feel safe. He’ll protect you. He always does.

But before he can reach you, the shadows behind him shift, and the looming figure of Mr. Machete emerges. A cruel grin stretches across his face as he strides forward, weapon gleaming ominously in the dim light.

Mr. Machete doesn’t hesitate. His machete swings down, and a sharp, searing pain tears through your side. You scream, the sound echoing through the empty halls, but it’s drowned out by the sickening squelch of metal meeting flesh. The pain is immediate, searing, and all-consuming. You feel the blade tear through flesh and bone, and a strangled cry escapes your throat. The world around you grows hazier with each passing second, your body growing colder as your blood pools beneath you.

Mr. Crawling’s anguished movements catch your eye. He’s thrashing, reaching out for you, his frantic gestures pleading for something—anything. But it’s no use. He can’t stop this. He can’t even scream, trapped in his own voiceless despair. The language barrier between you feels like an uncrossable chasm now, a cruel twist of fate.

Mr. Machete doesn’t stop. The machete swings again and again, each blow stealing a piece of you until you’re left a broken, mangled heap. And all Mr. Crawling can do is watch.

You’ve never seen him so helpless, so utterly broken. He’s shaking, his limbs trembling as if he’s trying to force himself to move, to intervene. But something—fear, maybe—roots him to the spot. His empty eyes never leave yours, though, as if silently begging for forgiveness. Your vision dims further, the edges blackening as your strength fades. You want to tell him it’s okay, that it’s not his fault, but the words won’t come. All you can manage is a weak, trembling hand reaching out toward him.

He reaches back, but you’ll never know if he touches you. The darkness swallows you whole, and the last thing you hear is his chittering, mournful and hollow, like a requiem for a life cut too short.

And then, there’s nothing.

Mr. Crawling stays there, holding your lifeless body long after your last breath escapes. The place is silent now, the echoes of your screams and the clash of metal faded into an eerie stillness. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just stares at the broken form in his arms, his heart shattered into pieces that will never be whole again.

Plagiarism not authorized.

[aeristhinks]

Forever Second | Victor Van Dort

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘭 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘶𝘮, 𝘴𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘺 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘺, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴, 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘺 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘺, 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘶𝘱. 𝘐𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘥𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘢 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

𝘝𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳.

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦—𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨, 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘣𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳’𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘣. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦, 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘠𝘦𝘵, 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘬𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴, 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘦.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘯𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘱. 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴, 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘸𝘪𝘥𝘰𝘸’𝘴 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦. 𝘖𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘬𝘦, 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢 𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳. 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵, 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘵, 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘳𝘢𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘺.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘸, 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵. 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘱 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘦, 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘨𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘨𝘰. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥. 𝘜𝘯𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦. 𝘈 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘺 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯, 𝘢 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘝𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘢𝘳. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩, 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵, 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘷𝘢𝘪𝘯.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘦𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘈𝘵 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦, 𝘢 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘣𝘺𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯, 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘸, 𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦—𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦. 𝘈 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘮.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯, 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘝𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘢 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘭𝘰𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘝𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰. 𝘕𝘰, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘢𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥𝘭𝘺.

𝘈 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘱𝘴𝘦.

𝘈 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘦, 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘤 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘦𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘝𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳? 𝘏𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩… 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘺. 𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘦, 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘸𝘦𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘬𝘦. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘝𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳…

𝘝𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘦𝘹𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦’𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯.

𝘐𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 “𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘵𝘩” 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘥, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘱𝘦𝘸 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘰𝘣𝘦𝘺. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘵, 𝘶𝘯𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘨𝘢𝘻𝘦 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

“𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦,” 𝘝𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘶𝘵𝘦.

𝘛𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘸𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘥. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵, 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘌𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺’𝘴 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

“𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶,” 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥, 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵, 𝘴𝘰 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴. “𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦.”

𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘤𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵, 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘝𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳—𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘨𝘰. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘨, 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘶𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘣𝘺𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘴𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘰𝘮.

𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥. 𝘌𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺, 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦, 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘌𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺, 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘭𝘺, 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘭𝘺. 𝘌𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺, 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘨𝘰.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯’𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘌𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘨𝘰. 𝘐𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥. 𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦? 𝘞𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘝𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨?

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘵 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘪𝘳. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩, 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘥. 𝘐𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘝𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘢 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘭𝘰𝘵’𝘴- 𝘝𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘢 𝘝𝘢𝘯 𝘋𝘰𝘳𝘵’𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘱. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘝𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳, 𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘴 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘝𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳…

𝘝𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥. 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘵 𝘶𝘱 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴. 𝘏𝘦 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘝𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘢, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥.

𝘝𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘨𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘏𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘭, 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘸 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘏𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘢 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶—𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘯 𝘐’𝘮 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘣𝘺𝘦.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦.

𝘈𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘸𝘭𝘺𝘸𝘦𝘥𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘭, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘨𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘴. 𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥, 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳, 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘝𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘢 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘺, 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘝𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳’𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘝𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶? 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘢 𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘴𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘭 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦, 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴. 𝘛𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘱𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭, 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺, 𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴:

“𝘝𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳, 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶… 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦.”

𝘍𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘍𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥.

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