#ALSO UNTOUCHED BY THE VERONICAS???

[yuutaok]

Went to club last night why did it feel like the dj was peering into my middle school mind… literally played every time we touch… primadonna girl… crushcrushcrush

[seethestarlights]

saw maisie peters tonight!!! it was very very fun!! and she played an unreleased song that references sydney!! aussies really keep winning!!!

[wickedhawtwexler]

it’s so funny how i was depressed as hell in middle school and now whenever i need cheering up i blast my favorite middle school jams

[yuwuta]

YUUTA OKKOTSU’S DECLASSIFIED JUJUTSU TECH SURVIVAL GUIDE (AN APPETITE HAUNTING THE HEART)

❝i know this tastes too good to be healthy. the more it melts, the sweeter it gets, so take my heart out because i need all of you.

*this is yuuta okkotsu’s fool-reviewed plan for navigating all things curses, sorcery, and love. 

pairings. okkotsu/reader

content, warnings. canon-adjacent, reader has a cursed technique, friends to lovers, smut (uhh... no triggers i think? other than implied virginity loss on yuuta’s part), mentions of violence/curses, possessive/intrusive thoughts... he starts of kinda sweet and weird and then just gets... weirder and worse lol, so mostly yuuta being... yuuta <2

notes. jujustu tech is a college not a highschool, yes i brought naruto in this, i believe in sasuke slander only from a place of pure love, real sasuke ridicule will not be accepted xoxo

word count. 12k i told you i could yap about him all day

playing. candy/baekhyun, untouched/the veronicas, cream soda/exo, lacy/olivia rodrigo, pure honey/beyoncé

#1 — Do NOT touch Maki Zenin’s tools (but if you do, the cute girl who hangs around Inumaki might help to patch you up).

Yuuta hadn’t meant to piss off Maki. He was trying to be helpful, but Yuuta learned the hard way today: do not touch Maki’s cursed tools, at all, for any reason whatsoever. He intended to hand it back to her, but she was prompt in assuming that was part of an attack, snatching it from under his grasp and giving him a jab on the wrist with the dull end of the stick. If the beatdown he’d endured during training put Yuuta on his deathbed, then that hit was the final nail in the coffin.  

The crack! sound of his bones made everyone pause their sparring, and Gojo winced the loudest, “Ouch! That one had to hurt, kid!” It was also Gojo who gathered everyone to stand around and look down at him clutching his wrist in pain, before making the executive decision to appoint you as Yuuta’s caretaker.  

“This is definitely something you can handle!” he cheered, patting the top of your head, “Take our dearest Yuuta to the infirmary and patch him up, please and thank you! With the way Maki’s been kicking him into the ground, those cuts are sure to get infected sooner rather than later. The two of you can join us for dinner when you’re finished!”  

Yuuta tried to refute, on the grounds of “No—no! I—ouch—this really isn’t worth using any kind of cursed energy over!” Which was quickly met with a mischievous raised eyebrow from his teacher, “Oh? Are you insinuating that my precious student doesn’t have the skill to fix a simple fracture?” That prompted Yuuta to spill a flurry of apologies, none of which were coherent, and ended up with him trailing behind you sheepishly to the infirmary with a broken wrist, several bleeding wounds, and probably early heart failure.  

Now, Yuuta sits with his feet dangling off of the edge of the examination chair, shivering from the chilliness of the room, and all of his nerve endings rattling at the realization that this is the first time that he’s been alone in a room with you since you’ve met. He winces, first at the sting of disinfectant into his wound, and then internally—mostly out of embarrassment—because his outward reaction made you pause your actions to question if he’s okay.  

Okay is relative, he thinks. In the grand scheme of things, he’s okay. Concerning his current injuries, he’ll be okay eventually. Concerning this… whatever this is he feels for you… maybe not so okay.  

“Sorry,” he stutters, too loud for the atmosphere and proximity of your bodies to each other, and, so, he winces again, cheeks staining red to match his embarrassment, as if he or you needed any confirmation of it. He doesn’t mean to be a difficult patient, but he has an adversity surrounding hospitals and medical care, and that alcohol really does burn, and you’re really close to his face, and—and you giggle a little, but Yuuta hears a chorus, instead; warm, spring-like, with violins and a piano and cellos strumming in perfect harmony, and the buzz of bees and butterfly wings flapping the melody.  

“You apologize a lot,” you tell him, a kind smile on your lips. You step forward, just a bit, as you peel off the band-aid adhesive and gently press it over the bridge of Yuuta’s nose. It’s Hello Kitty themed. It makes him want to scream.  

“Yeah, uh—sorry about that!” Yuuta apologizes, once again too loudly. He scratches at the back of his neck with his left hand, and his eyes go wide after a few beats, “No, wait—I didn’t mean to apologize again. I just... I, uh... thank you. That’s what I wanted to say. For helping me, you have my sincerest thank you.” 

Yuuta dips his head to bow, and when he raises it again, you’re blinking at him owlishly, and he thinks he’s really done it now. You must think he’s a freak, if you didn’t already. He thinks you’re gonna tell him off for being pathetic and a weakling, but instead you laugh again—that precious sound that pauses Yuuta’s world for the better.  

“You’re awfully formal. There’s no need for that, or to thank me. We’re friends, afterall,” you reassure him, “Even if Gojo did force you to be my practice dummy.” 

It’s his turn to reassure you, his uninjured hand moving from his neck to shake frantically in front of him, “It’s completely okay,” he does his best to give you a smile as warm as the one you give him. It probably doesn’t work, but he tries anyway—he’s always been an awkward smiler, too wide-mouthed and toothy, “You can do whatever you want to me, I trust you.”  

Your face seems almost solemn at his declaration, and the panic instantly kicks in again. Yuuta scrambles when his words play back in his head, “I’m sorry, was that weird? I meant that I trust your judgment. You can, uh, fix me up however you best see fit—or just leave it! I’m sure it’ll heal on—”

“You’re awfully self-sacrificing, too,” you cut him off with a laugh, your usual warm nature clicking back. Yuuta shrugs, feeble; you smile wider, “I’m the one who should be apologizing to you. I keep staring, and I’m sorry to have made you uncomfortable.” 

“Not at all! You don’t... make me uncomfortable, I mean. You could never,” Yuuta rushes, curling back into himself after his outburst, “You... it always feels really nice when you’re around. I can’t explain it, but everything is calmer.”

Your eyes flutter across his face, before you turn away from him, “I can tell it makes you nervous—I can hear the changes in your heartbeat,” you tell him, opening the cabinet to return the alcohol to its rightful place. You must also be able to hear his thoughts, chiming in just as Yuuta continues to wonder if his heartbeat is really that loud, “It’s part of my technique. I don’t mean to intrude on your heart.” 

Is it an intrusion if Yuuta left room for you? If he wanted you to be there? Was it crazy to think that he’d give you his heart to hold and trust you to take care of it, even though you’d only met a few months ago? Maybe it would be easier if he let you squeeze tight enough to put him out of his misery already.

Luckily, you keep talking before he can say something stupid like that out-loud again. 

“It’s just that... you remind me of somebody that I used to know. You’re kind like him, and you both share a well-intentioned recklessness, too. I see so much of him in you that it’s hard not to stare sometimes,” you admit, turning back to face him, and gingerly taking his wrist between your hands. When your hands start to glow, Yuuta can feel it—your reversed cursed technique is warm on the surface, but chilly underneath, like a heated blanket on top of perfectly cool sheets. 

“I don’t mean to say that you’re just a replacement,” you continue, slowly rotating your hands over his injury. It stings a little, then soothes, “I’m just still in awe of how nice it feels being around you. It feels strangely—” 

“Familiar,” Yuuta interjects, “I understand. You feel that way, too. I think... that’s what I meant before.” He understands your words perfectly because you remind him of someone precious to him, too; someone he used to and still loves alot. “You—it makes me happy, that’s why I seem so nervous.”

It seems as though you understand him, too. His heart sings, and you can probably hear it, but Yuuta doesn’t quite mind so much now. What he feels for you is consuming, maybe concerning, but knowing that you know what it’s like to love like him brings him an odd sense of comfort. Maybe he should be jealous that you’ve had someone to love that much before, but he’s not exactly in a position to talk. What matters is that you can hear him and feel him—his heart and his love and his sad and his happy, and it doesn’t push you away. 

It makes him want to burst. He owes you a thank you for putting something so precious in his life. He owes you an apology, for ever doubting that you couldn’t handle his symptoms. He should have realized that you can handle his love.

“You feel really warm, too,” he blushes, scratching at the back of his neck with his free hand, “And, uh, not just because you’re holding my hand.” 

The twinkle in your eyes turns into confusion, then surprise when you look down to see that the hand below his wrist had moved to rest underneath his palm instead. His wrist was well healed by now, and you’d been, effectively, massaging his skin and muscles with your technique for the latter duration of your conversation without realizing it. 

Yuuta couldn’t tell when it went from healing to hand holding, but he’s not complaining—and he doesn’t think he could have stopped it either. Another quality to your technique that he couldn’t understand was how your energy felt sticky, flowed like honey; how it managed to run into broken crevices and bruised dents with a mind of its own. Even if he’d wanted to pull his hand away—and he didn’t, he absolutely did not—he wouldn’t have gotten far from you. He never wanted to be. 

“You already have calluses on your palm,” you note, dispelling your healing energy, holding onto Yuuta’s hand only by want now, “You train hard. You’ll catch up to Maki and Toge, quickly, but not if you don’t take care of yourself.” 

Yuuta almost chokes when you rotate your wrist so that your fingers are aligned. Your hand is so much softer than his, warmer than his, and maybe he’s idealistic, but your fingers seem to slot perfectly between his when you curl them. 

“I’m not always going to be around to fix you up,” you warn him, “So don’t go around pissing Maki off too much, alright?” 

Yuuta can feel the heat from your body flow through him. From his palm, up his arm, down into his chest, and everywhere else. It doesn’t feel real. You’re holding his hand, you’re smiling at him, you’re right there and you’re so bright and beautiful, so Yuuta doesn’t know why his thoughts are so gray and dangerous; you wouldn’t hurt him, and he doesn’t want to hurt you, so why can’t he stop thinking about keeping you like this—of stitching your hands together forever to keep you by his side, or letting this heat consume and burn you both. 

Yuuta shakes his head to wiggle those thoughts away, but to you it seems like he’s saying no to staying off of Maki’s radar. When he realizes it, he nods too reverently to make up for it; surely looking like an idiot, and then to top it off, he squeaks, “I—yes, ma’am!” 

Another foolish outburst on his end, perhaps, but it makes you giggle, fills the room with springtime for a moment, so to Yuuta, it was worth it. “Good,” you nod, release his hand and beckon him off of the chair, “Come on, we should go eat before Panda takes all the good sides for himself.” 

Yuuta follows you back to the dorms with his stomach already full of love, love, love. He loves you, and you can hear, and see, and feel exactly what you do to him, and you don’t run. Yuuta thinks maybe you should, even though he doesn’t want you to. Surely you know what he did to Rika when he loved her. 

Rika seems to like you, actually, if the humming of her voice in his head as he takes his seat at the table next to you is any indication. He can vaguely make out some of her words as you pass him the dumplings—warm, kind, loyal. He agrees. Pretty, too. No disagreement there. 

In such a short amount of time, you’ve shifted Yuuta’s ethos for life. He wanted to die to be with the person he loved before, and never quite understood why Rika would stop him, why she would want him to suffer in this life alone; but maybe this is what Rika was always trying to tell him; that his love was not lost and buried with her, but flowing towards you, his heart, a beacon for you to locate. 

You’d mentioned that he reminded you of someone you knew before, that you couldn’t see anymore. Yuuta doesn’t know what happened to your person before he came along; he can only hope that you’ll allow him and his heart to be a vessel for your love someday, too. He won’t disappoint you. He won’t let you let go of him. 

It shouldn’t be hard. You already have his heart in your hands. 

#2 — Gojo is more than a teacher. He is also the school event planner, once ranked Diamond in Overwatch, and is the only person blacklisted from any and all kitchens on campus. He also gives pretty good (sometimes questionable?) advice. His eyes are kind of scary.  

You’re there when he and Toge are nearly decimated by the Grade 1 curse in the abandoned market. He still doesn’t understand much about sorcery at this point, so seeing people like you and Toge in action is awe-inspiring to say the least. Yuuta knows that Toge is nothing short of amazing, but he can’t help but to be drawn into you, you, you—your energy, your fighting style, the seemingly never-ending applications of your technique. Cursed energy in and of itself is still a foreign concept to him, so perhaps it’s that seeing you use the reverse of it so effortlessly is even more novel to him. 

He can hear Rika strumming in the back of his mind, an indistinct itch and hum that sounds vaguely like laughter at his self-justification. He chooses to ignore her. 

After, while he’s still buzzing with the tingly warm sensation of your technique after you’d patched him up, Gojo finds him, and Yuuta, unable to keep up a façade, pours all his anxious, worried, inquisitive feelings about his mission on the table. 

“The way that (_____) can heal wounds... is that something I can learn?” Yuuta questions his teacher, eyes tired but genuine and earnest.  

And Gojo, all knowing and absolutely singing at the implications, smiles so wide he’s certain his newest student could see the crinkles in the corners of his eyes, even through the dark tint of his glasses. “Maybe.”  

He goes on, leaning back into the old loveseat, one leg crossed over his other knee, “You’ll probably be able to learn to heal yourself with reversed cursed technique, but using it to heal others is difficult and rare. Shoko and (_____) are the only people I know who can do it.”

“Is… did she get to learn it because she’s a Grade 1?” He remembers Maki explaining the ranking system for Jujutsu sorcerers. You and Toge were ranked the highest in the class, and amongst the other Kyoto students; it would make sense that you two have learned more applications of your techniques due to your higher placements.

Gojo chuckles, much to Yuuta’s confusion. “That’s not quite how it works—and if it were, then you’d already know because you’re a Special Grade. You don’t unlock new lessons as you move up, you move up because of how well you’ve learned to control and apply your own cursed technique.”

Right. That makes sense. Except Yuuta knows that his classification of Special Grade is a bit of a cheat because he can’t control or apply his cursed energy half as well as any of his classmates. He has Rika to thank for his immediate promotion, not himself or his own skills.

“In any case, if you do learn it, you’ll never be able to execute it like her, that’s for certain. Reversed cursed technique is complicated to learn and nearly impossible to teach. It’s one of those things you truly have to figure out for yourself when the timing is right—I only got it when I was on the brink of death. It’s 100% effective on the person doing it, but only 50% effective when applied to other people by the user,” Gojo says, “Except for (_____). She was born with reversed cursed energy, which is why she has an almost 100% output on herself and others, so she’s extra special. ”

Yuuta frowns. He never expected to do anything half as well as you, but knowing there’s only half a chance that he could, literally, only ever meet you half-way is frustrating. You can save him time and time and time again, as you already have, and all he can do is be a wound for you to stitch back together. 

It must be difficult for you. A similar thought had crossed his mind when he first met Shoko-san, feeling bad for her having to carry the burden of healing others, knowing that she could never receive the same treatment in return. It’s worse for you, though, to be an angel amongst the men on this Earth—it’s not fair that you can give so much to help, and nobody can do the same for you. Yuuta wants to give something to you, he wants to devote himself to you, so at the very least, you have that. If he can’t give you anything else, he can give you himself.

Gojo laughs at Yuuta’s silence, kicking his legs up on the coffee table. “That’s hard for you to hear, huh? Ha! You truly are a lover, not a fighter, Yuuta.”

Yuuta blinks at him. “I, uh... thank you?” He says, even though he’s not so certain that those two things are discernable.  

“Right now, the best thing for you to do is focus on controlling Rika and your cursed energy. That way, (_____) can also focus on fighting, and not healing, when you’re on missions together. The stronger you are, the less she’ll have to clean up after you,” Gojo advises.

He puts his feet back on the floor and uses the leverage to lean over, a bit too close for Yuuta’s comfort. “The only thing you can do for her is to learn to help yourself.”

Yuuta’s eyes go wide. He wants to—he wants to help you, wants to help himself, wants to help others, too. There’s a selfish twang for a moment, the thought of not needing you anymore tugging at his heart, but Rika reminds him that he’ll still want you. 

Then an even scarier thought crosses his mind. “What happens if I don’t learn to control this? What happens if I curse her instead?”

Yuuta trembles at the thought, breathing and heartbeat erratic, his sensei moving back a bit. Rika is there again, reassuring him that he never hurt her, that his love never hurts, that the only person he’s ever truly harmed is himself by isolation of his own feelings. Trust her, Rika demands, she can handle this.

You can. Can you? You have, so far. You don’t run, you don’t push, you give, and give, and give to him; Rika was kind and playful and took and took and took Yuuta’s loneliness and sickness in stride and he still cursed her, seemingly for all eternity. He wants to love and be loved, but not if it means hurting you—isn’t it bad enough that he’s already inept at healing your wounds? Why should he risk giving you more?

“Yuuta,” Gojo calls him out of his thoughts, “I’m disappointed.” 

That truly breaks Yuuta’s cyclical monologue. “I—disappointed?” 

Gojo ticks his tongue, shakes his head and points a finger in accusation, “You should know your fellow classmates better by now. (_____) is not that weak or scared,” he chastises, “You’re so worried about cursing her that you haven’t realized that she is the only person so far to have effectively used her curse on you.”

Yuuta pauses, eyes wet with the awful realization that Gojo was right. You have already cursed him; your technique has already gotten past the barrier of his curse. You’ve cursed him. He never stopped to think that it was possible, worried only about himself. How selfish—he shares Gojo’s disappointment in himself. 

He’s spent so much time loathing his jealous mind and decaying heart that he hasn’t opened his eyes to see you that you’ve found him. You can poison anything he does, and make the antidote with equal ease; how stupidly naive of Yuuta to think that he could be the one to diagnose or treat you better than you could him, or yourself. 

“I’m sorry, sensei,” Yuuta dips his head, and also spares you an internal apology, “I understand better, now.”

“Is that so?” Gojo muses, leaning back into the sofa. His eyes scan Yuuta’s when his head is raised again, that knowing grin creeping back up on his lips. “Well, if you still want to know more about reversed curse technique, or want help learning it, it’s not an entirely lost cause. I’m definitely not the person for this lesson, but, you know who is?” 

Yuuta feels a sense of whiplash from the change in Gojo’s demeanor. Confusion clouds his mind again, and he shrugs, “Um... Shoko-sensei?” 

Gojo makes a loud buzzer noise, complete with crossing his arms in front of his chest in a big ‘X.’ Yuuta frowns again. Is that where Toge learned to do that? 

“Wrong! I’m talking about (_____), obviously!” Gojo claps his hands together, before lowering his glasses to wiggle his eyebrows, “Tutoring is a textbook way to get some alone time, kiddo. You want to spend more time with her outside of class and missions, right?”

“I want to spend all my time with her,” Yuuta confesses, mindlessly. And foolishly, he soon realizes, when he sees that Gojo’s grin has tripled; and he’s quick to flash his hands to correct himself, “No—not like that—not in a creepy way! I just... I want to get to know her better, like you said.”

Yuuta’s awkward chuckles fill the space, and he can feel his insides burning from his cheeks all the way down to his hands. Would he ever be able to think coherently or tactfully when it came to you? 

“So, uh... I... it’s okay if I ask her about this stuff, too?” 

“Some sorcerers don’t like talking about their cursed techniques. But (_____) might not mind. You won’t know until you try.” 

Yuuta nods shallowly. Try. He can do that—if not for himself, then for you; he can try for you. All you need from him is to accept your course of treatment; to love you is to let you curse him, completely. 

“I’m a firm believer that all’s fair in love and war,” Gojo stands, stretching into Yuuta’s space to ruffle his hair. He leans down further, giving him a glimpse of his glowing eyes before sparing him a wink, “So, be a little greedy, and give it your best shot.”

#3 — Social media is the most twisted curse out there. It makes you feel so close, yet is a stark reminder of just how far you are from the person on the other end of the screen. 

Yuuta has never considered himself good with technology. Even before Rika’s incident, he often felt ostracized by his peers because he didn’t have the same interest in or experience with games and cartoons. He had no reason to have a computer or a phone until enrolling at Jujutsu Tech, and there was an evident learning curve in navigating the devices. Toge often snickered watching Yuuta use his smartphone with the dexterity of a senior citizen. 

He only barely set up Instagram and TikTok accounts with Toge’s help, but he doesn’t really get the idea of followers—why would people who don’t know him want to follow him? Why would he follow them? He doesn’t know many memes or jokes and even after seeing them, he doesn’t think many are all that funny, but he laughs anyway. 

He doesn’t have much time to perfect his social media and meme skills, anyway. He’s dedicated to training and gaining mission experience—which pays off when Geto declares war on the school by the end of the year. Yuuta remembers how you returned his phone to him the next day, a few cracks and black, dark spots on the screen, giggling that you’d found it in the rubble, but that even your reverse cursed technique couldn’t fix its scars. 

He thinks he gets the hang of it in the end—the basics of communication and the appeal behind connection with others through it—even going so far as to trade selfies with Gojo sometimes, who always seemed happy to receive them, no matter how much post-exorcism curse gunk Yuuta was covered in. 

He also frequently exchanges texts with you. He much prefers to see you in person, but when you’re stuck for long hours in the ER, or away from campus on your own missions, Yuuta has grown fond of receiving your messages. He always attempts to read them in your voice and imagine your facial expressions to match those of the emojis you send. He hasn’t quite gotten the hang of those yet, doesn’t understand what Toge means when he says that not all smiley faces are created equally, so to save himself the trouble, and potential embarrassment, he’s opted to use emoticons instead. Which, if you asked him, has been working out in his favor, seeing as you call them cute. 

Yuuta also uses the safety of his phone screen to implement some of Gojo’s advice; picking your brain about curses, sorcery, and healing via text message for just long enough for you to say it’s easier to explain in person to come to him and teach him in your spare time. Soon these study sessions turn into texts asking to hang out outside of class and missions and work, and Yuuta couldn’t be more elated. The screen he once scorned at seemed to be his one-way ticket to being able to talk to his favorite person constantly. 

But Yuuta never thought it would become his only means of communication with you. He’s devastated when you break the news to him, over half-finished oolong tea and nervous finger-twiddling. 

“You’re leaving?” He echoes, hoping he doesn’t sound too much like a heartbroken child, even though that’s exactly how he feels. 

It’s quiet outside of the tea shop where you two sit, nearing seven in the evening; only the soft sounds of other customers conversing behind you two inside, distant cars on the main street, and the sound of Yuuta’s heart beating frantically.  

“Not leaving leaving,” you clarify, pausing your finger twirling to place one of your hands over Yuuta’s on the table, “I’m still studying, but I’m being sent abroad for a bit.” 

He should be focused on the fact that you’re touching his hand—Yuuta should be happy! Rika still cheers for you in his mind, but her voice is quieter now—but Yuuta can’t. He’s focused on everything else, spiraling about the implications of your words. You’re leaving... going away from him when things are going so well. 

Yuuta was so happy when you taught him the reversed curse technique, even happier when he realized he did have the ability to heal others, knowing it also meant having the ability to help you relieve some of your burdens. That didn’t mean that he didn’t still want to give himself to you, he would if you’d have him—but now he wouldn’t have the chance.  

“I haven’t told anyone else yet—Gojo only told me this morning,” you mumble, “I’m going to miss you all a lot, but we can still text every day! I don’t know how long the time difference will be, but we can FaceTime.” 

It’s not lost on Yuuta that he is the first person that you’ve told about this. It’s another thing to be happy about, another little victory he never thought he’d achieve, but it’s still overpowered by the dread of you leaving him. 

He blinks, placing his other hand atop yours, sandwiching them between his, “How long?” Yuuta can’t read the expression on your face, but you don’t pull your hand away. He’s glad. He didn’t think when he’d done it, but the lack of rejection feels good—your touch always feels good, reverse cursed energy or not. 

“I’m… not sure—a few months at least, maybe until the end of the year,” you admit, squeezing his hand, “There are some cursed objects and scrolls they want me to help recover, and Gojo says I get to work with another Special Grade sorcerer, too.” 

His hands feel so good, so warm, but everything else about Yuuta feels cold, icy with dread and fear. You’re going away for a long time, and he won’t get to see you or hear you laugh or feel your warmth while you’re gone. His sunny days are going away, and Yuuta honestly doesn’t know how many more overcast skies and rain clouds he can take.

And it’s selfish, he knows. He should be happy for you—you were chosen for this mission, for this training; you’re getting the chance to use your skills to help others, and train even further. So, why couldn’t he be happy for you? Why could he only feel a pit in his stomach about the thought of you leaving and meeting some other Special Grade who’s rightfully deserving of their title? Not only had he lost the thing that brought him to you in the first place, but you’re about to find another replacement. Sure, with or without Rika’s curse, Yuuta had become so much stronger, but what’s it worth if he couldn’t keep you by his side?

“Tsukumo is supposed to be really cool, but you’ll always be my favorite Special Grade, Yuuta,” you taunt with a smile. 

Yuuta’s eyes go wide and watery with wobbly lips and flushed cheeked and sweaty palms to match. Favorite. Favorite, favorite, favorite. The word spoken in your voice rings in his head like a beautiful chime, the tones washing over him and erasing all his fear and doubt and insecurity. 

You had called Yuuta your favorite. Sure, he’s still upset when he and the other first-years drop you off at the airport too weeks later, he still cries the first night you’re gone, still nearly breaks his knee trying to jump for his phone the first time that you call; but it’s okay because Yuuta is living off of the temporary high of being your favorite. 

And also, because, in the end, your separation seems to have been inevitable. Not a month after everyone bids you farewell from Jujutsu Tech, Gojo tells him that he’s next on the docket to be sent abroad. He’s happy for a split second, thinking that he might get sent off to Europe where you’re still working with Tsukumo, but then Yuuta learns his true fate: studying under the tutelage of Miguel in Kenya; equal parts away from his classmates in Tokyo, and from you in Barcelona. 

Whoever said distance makes the heart grow fonder was a liar and a bitch, because the favorite boy honeymoon comes to an end when Yuuta settles into his new room and makes his first call to you from Nairobi. The feeling and reality of being alone, and even further away from you finally hits him. Still, he relishes in the sound of your voice; fantasizes that when you reach for your phone to show him your new things, it’s you reaching for his hand; dreams of you laying next to him when you fall asleep on the call, and desperately wishes that he could touch you, hold you, kiss you. 

He really wants to kiss you. He thinks he’s probably always wanted to kiss you, from the very moment his feelings for you started to grow; even if he couldn’t discern them at first, he knows now—Yuuta knows that he misses you like he’s never missed anyone before. The grief of losing part of Rika, and then losing his proximity to you merely weeks apart is finally catching up to him, and it’s morphing into a yearning that tugs on his heartstrings and rattles his brain. 

He knows that the rate of growth of his feelings for you hasn’t been steady, but he blames you for that. You’re the reason he loves you so much, the reason he can’t sleep at night, the reason he learns how to bring Rika back—because he thinks of you, you, you, and how he lost Rika once, and he’d be a fool to lose you twice.

Yuuta thinks it’s no coincidence that your cursed technique has the ability to alter him in mind and body. You have so much ownership over him and you probably don’t even know that Yuuta has spent every single moment of his life living and breathing for you since you’ve met. 

And you take his breath away yet again, when he gets to see you in Germany. Miguel is taking him to Switzerland on a classified mission, and you and Tsukumo are on your way to Austria, and by some great miracle, your layovers align. When he sees you waving to him down the long corridor in the airport, it feels like a scene straight out of his dreams. Yuuta spares no time trying to look cool or nonchalant; making a beeline to you, desperate to feel your touch after so long. 

He’s breathless in those ten minutes that you’re reunited. Everything is too short, but he does his best to live in it all. He speaks a mile a minute, cramming in anything he hadn’t already revealed to you in your many late-night FaceTimes, and swallowing everything you tell him. He wants to believe that he’d made the best of what little time he had with you, but the truth is he didn’t. Because while you were smiling and hugging and telling him that you missed him, all Yuuta really wanted to do was kiss you—and if he were a smarter man, a better man, he would have. 

He thinks, for a split second, that you might have wanted to kiss him too—when you rock back on your heels after saying good-bye, hesitating for just a moment, almost expectantly, before your eyes flutter away. He’ll never know, because he never asked, he never tried, he never said—only whispered, pathetically, to himself as he watches the silhouette of you and Tsukomo before you disappear for boarding, that he loves you. 

He almost believes that you hear it when you turn over your shoulder after his quiet confession. Would it have been better that way—if he kissed you, or confessed in the heat of the moment—or would it be taking advantage of an otherwise beautiful moment? Yuuta will never know, and the what if tantalizes him.

He takes his phone out of his pocket and opens the thread of your messages. He starts typing, then stops. Backspace. Start typing. Pause. Read, re-read. Delete. Groan. 

What’s the point? He can’t kiss you through the screen, and he’ll be damned if the first time he tells you that he’s in love with you is via phone call. He slumps his shoulders, and Miguel gives him a pity pat on the back. Yuuta goes to lock his phone when he sees the gray thought bubbles pop up below your last message and his entire body goes rigid in anticipation. 

[received] 03:27 PM — [attachment: 1 image] — you should keep a closer eye on your things yuuta — i miss you already (◍•ᴗ•◍)❤ 

Yuuta’s heart stops when he sees the picture of you in your seat, wearing his white uniform jacket. He doesn’t know when you snuck it away from him, but that doesn’t matter—like anything else, he would have willingly given it to you, and then some. It looks much better on you anyway, and Yuuta pinches his eyes shut for a brief moment, to swallow down the thoughts threatening to swarm his mind of you in his arms, in other clothes, in his bed. 

He opens his eyes, takes a deep breath, and lets the warm, gooey feeling settle into his veins, and moves his fingers to type. 

[sent] 03:38 PM — keep it, you can have anything of mine you want — i miss you more (๑′ ᴗ ‵๑)♥

You heart his messages and let him know you’re taking off soon, and putting your phone on airplane mode until you land. He’s not so confident to send a picture in return, unless you ask for it. Maybe you will, when you’re in Austria. He’ll have to work on his selfies.

He takes another once over the picture you sent, committing the idea of you in his clothes to memory. He knows the messages won’t delete themselves, but he takes a screenshot for safekeeping anyway. Maybe phones aren’t so bad, afterall. 

#4 — Do not kill Itadori Yuuji. Under any circumstances. Even if some days you really feel like it. Also, sign up for a Crunchyroll subscription. 

Yuuta can confidently say that his training abroad was both the most difficult and fulfilling thing he’s ever experienced. He believes that the change he’s endured is mostly good—he’s physically stronger, emotionally wiser, and overall more confident in himself and his cursed technique. One year ago, he would have been content with dying, but now he has more than enough reasons to keep living. He has people who care about him, and who would miss him if he were gone; and he’s got someone he would miss a whole bunch, too, should anything happen to them.  

By miss Yuuta means that he might burn down a small town, might level a city, might flip the entire world on its axis if something were to happen to you. In his defense, he’d go to extremes for most of his friends—but for you, there’s truly nothing he wouldn’t risk.  

He figured that out in his time abroad, too; came to terms with the fact that he’s selfish with his love. He loves too much, too hard, too close, and he isn’t very willing to share. He doesn’t see it as a bad thing, anymore, either—Yuuta knows now that the way he loves makes him who he is, and right now, he has the confidence to say that he likes that person, and that he loves you, undoubtedly. 

So, forgive him if there’s a cloud of negative energy the size of a coach bus looming over him at the moment, because since you’ve returned to campus, Itadori Yuuji has been slobbering over you like a lovesick puppy.  

Because apparently, you happen to know Itadori Yuuji—as in, since you were four and he was three, all the way up until your senior year of highschool, when you were scouted by Gojo, who, believes that you coming home from your study abroad trip would be the perfect time to reunite two best friends who hadn’t seen or heard from each other for the better part of two years—all while keeping this little reunion a secret from everybody, including you and Itadori.

A surprise, it certainly is, when the first time that Yuuta and the other second-years see you in months is on the dingy couch in the common room, under a cuddle pile of the first-years. Nobara’s arms wrapped around your left arm, body slumped against your side, Megumi’s long limbs stretching over Itadori’s torso, leaving the palm of his hand resting on your thigh. Far too close for Yuuta’s comfort. The only saving grace is that the jacket he loaned you is also spread across your lap, offering another layer between your body and his palm. And then there’s Itadori Yuuji, squished right between you and Megumi, with his head on your shoulder, his arms around your waist, and your free arm slung around his neck. 

Yuuta should have been relishing in the fact that you were finally home, but all his focus is drawn to the way your position allows Itadori to cuddle right into you, to the way your arm is around his shoulder and your cheek pressed against the top of his head. You two might as well have been in your own little world, and Yuuta hates it. And, as if that’s not enough, the realization that he was not the first person to hug you or welcome you home clicks, and his anger bubbles deeper.  

Next comes dread, that creeps in slowly when you and the first-years wake up, and you and Itadori go on and on and on about how surprised you were to see each other at the airport, how Itadori just assumed that when Gojo said he’d assigned them to “pick up something super special,” that he was messing with them, how you couldn’t seem to take your eyes off of your precious, precious kouhai that you’d missed so dearly.

Childhood best friends brought back together through sorcery. Yuuta’s seen that one before, and he didn’t like the ending.

You and Itadori mend the gap in your friendship like two years of no contact was nothing, falling into a pattern that’s so easy and familiar, that it’s painful for Yuuta to watch. The assumption that you’d died, and the knowledge that Yuuji had actually died only served to strengthen your vows to protect each other in the name of your friendship from here on out.  

Yuuta considers putting his own sword through his chest if it means you’ll swear your devotion to him. If he died, would you cry for him? Would you pray over his grave and beg for him to come back to you?—or would you find comfort in those who kept living, find solace in a friend who came back for you and can still hold you in his arms? 

“Tsuna tsuna,” he hears from his left, followed by a mischievous giggle. Toge’s taunting is hardly enough to pull Yuuta out of his cloud of rage, but the blunt end of Maki’s staff is.  

“Will you stop pining so damn hard?” she sneers, whipping the staff back to her side and placing a hand on her hip, “Not only is it pathetic, it’s gonna attract curses like flies to honey.”  

“Why am I the only one getting hit?” He turns to his right to motion to Megumi, who seems to be brooding just as hard. Megumi respects you, but it was easy to see that he was reaching his limit on sharing his recently revived lover with someone else. Maki huffs, “Because he doesn’t have a literal cloud of darkness looming around him.”  

Yuuta sighs, doing his best to reign in his feelings, but it’s pointless once he hears your laughter across the field—light and airy and sunshiney and all because of Itadori Yuuji. 

What were you two talking about? If Itadori were out of the way, would you pledge yourself to Yuuta? Did he ever hold a space comparable to Itadori in your heart—would you let him?

A broken chord strikes Yuuta’s heart when he realizes that Itadori is the person you told him about last year; the person you missed so much, and you never thought you’d be able to see again; the person that Yuuta reminded you of; the person he was happy and eager to be for you. And now, in knowing Itadori, Yuuta thinks that his willingness was beautifully naive—to think that he could compare to someone like this. Itadori is light, where Yuuta is dark; he sees the best in people, where Yuuta manages to come off on the wrong foot always; he perseveres in faith and determination, where Yuuta is fueled by an anxious desire to prove, prove, prove himself to be worth something to anybody. 

He can see how easy it is to love Itadori. It’s easy to cling to faith, to believe in something higher than yourself, to know that someone above can pull you up. Yuuta cannot compete where he cannot compare; he’s a shadow that engulfs you, takes you away from light, a dream that’s hard to wake up from. He could never be bright to you; his best attempt would probably drive you and him too close to the sun, martyred for love in burning flames.

Still, even in all his jealousy, Yuuta comes to the even more sobering realization that making Itadori disappear wouldn’t fix his problems. You told him he wasn’t Itadori’s replacement, but maybe that’s because he could never be him; maybe he doesn’t have to be. Yuuji could never be him, and he could never be Yuuji, but whether Yuuta likes it or not, he and Itadori are two sides of the same coin; and as such, Yuuta has, begrudgingly, grown to feel the same sense of responsibility over the younger boy that you do.

So, even though he never expected that they would both be at the mercy of your hand at the same time in this lifetime, he absolutely cannot kill Itadori Yuuji. Not only would it make you sad, but it would probably make Yuuta even sadder in the end, somehow. What a bother. 

He’s about to get up—to leave, maybe go over there, he doesn’t know yet—but he stops when he hears a calm buzzing by his ear. Yuuta blinks, slowly, shoulders relaxing unconsciously, allowing the larger than normal honey-bee to land on him. He recognizes it as one of your shikigami—and even if he hadn’t, that familiar, cooling sensation that washes over him would have let him know—so, gently, he lifts a hand across his torso, allowing it to crawl onto his finger, and strum its tune.

Yuuta can feel a few more, hear them humming around him, and he closes his eyes, lets the small group of bees flutter around him and all that looming jealousy dissipates from his body. 

Faintly, past the calm hum of the small swarm, Yuuta can hear the call of Yuuji’s voice, petulant, “Aw, no fair. Fushiguro, I want calming shikigami, too! Can you bring out the bunnies? Please.” 

Beside him, Toge and Maki seem bemused by his newly calmed state, then amused when Megumi sighs, stands, and reluctantly pulls his hands together before a couple dozen white rabbits flood the field and hop onto Yuuji. 

The buzzing grows softer, and then quiet. Briefly, Yuuta feels a bee land on his cheek, before it flies away, leaving the smell of fresh pollen in his wake, and when he blinks his eyes open again, you’re there, in front of him with a smile sweeter than anything he’s ever known. 

“Hope they didn’t scare you,” you muse, waving a finger before the last bee hovering around you disappears, “You seemed upset, everything alright?” 

He’s about to open his mouth to say something, anything, when he’s cut off by Itadori Yuuji once again, with one bunny on either shoulder, and three more cradled in his arms. “Hey, doesn’t (_____) totally remind you guys of Sakura!”  

Maki scoffs, albeit with amusement, as she points her staff at Yuuji’s hair. “If anyone bears resemblance to Sakura, it’s you, Itadori.”  

Yuuji actually makes an attempt to look at his own hair before chuckling. Yuuta flashes a look to Megumi, who looks equal parts exasperated and enchanted. Yuuta doesn’t get the reference, and when Inumaki starts making gestures about how Yuuji is like some Naruto guy and Yuuji screams about how Megumi resembles a Shikamaru, he becomes too afraid to ask.  

You seemed charmed at the end of the discussion, when everybody fundamentally agrees that you’re the Sakura of the group. Yuuta is far less charmed by these comparisons (and it has nothing to do with the fact that he didn’t get one). He doubts that this Sakura person can do what you can do, doubts that Sakura is even worthy enough to be compared to you, whoever she may be. 

And maybe Yuuta goes back to his room to watch several compilation videos about ships in Naruto later that day, but nobody has to know that. From what he’s gathered, Sakura is pretty cool, and even though Yuuji bears the most physical resemblance to her, he can see why everyone agrees that your healing abilities compare well to hers. Yuuta thinks you’re better, and he’s still holding out hope that there’s some other character equivalent for you that Itadori didn’t think of, that Yuuta can, just to prove that he knows you better. He doesn’t fight any comparisons between Gojo and Kakashi, though. That one honestly freaked him out a little. 

If it turns out that you’re Sakura, then he should hope to be Sasuke, but Yuuta thinks this dude is kind of a dick. From the 47 minutes of scattered Naruto content that he’s consumed, he actually much prefers the dynamic between Sakura and Naruto, even if that does equate to Itadori Yuuji having a crush on you, at least you’re out of his league and chasing after somebody else. 

Still, he thinks Sakura would be upset if Naruto actually died, or worse, if Sasuke actually killed him—never mind the fact that apparently he tried to kill her? Yuuta would never do that, but Sakura still seems to like Sasuke after all of that... in any case, Itadori Yuuji must live, and Yuuta must accept his fate as Sasuke reborn. 

Though, to Yuuta’s understanding so far, Sasuke and Naruto are destined to duke it out and if only one of them has to survive, then maybe it’s not so bad to be this guy. Yuuta doesn’t know how it ends between them, but he thinks he could take on Itadori Yuuji if he had to. He won’t because he’s your friend, and Yuuta’s friend now, too, but if Itadori or the curse inside of him acts up, then Yuuta can at least rest assured he can put a stop to it. That’s not something he could have guaranteed a year ago, but now, he can. 

Yuuta sighs, finally locking his phone and shoving his head under his blanket. He’s been knee deep in analyses about Sakura ships for the past two and a half hours now, and he’ll admit Sasuke is growing on him, but not much. His only saving grace seems to be that Sakura is madly, unconditionally in love with him; Yuuta wouldn’t mind having that kind of devotion from you. He turns to lay on his back, staring up at the blank ceiling and wonders: if it came down to saving only one of them, would Sakura pick Naruto or Sasuke... would you choose the boy who’s loved and looked up to you since you were kids, or the boy who sacrificed everything in hopes of gaining enough strength so that what happened to him never happens to anyone else. 

Maybe they answer that in the series, Yuuta reasons. 720 episodes, at 20 minutes per episode... if he devotes about half-a-day to watching Naruto, then he can breeze through it in a little over two weeks, maybe sooner if he uses his weekends efficiently. That’s plausible, and by the end of it, Yuuta is certain that he’ll have the answers he needs—and even if it doesn’t, then at least, he’ll have one more thing to talk to you about.

In the end, Sakura picks Sasuke, Naruto marries somebody else, and Yuuta understands that the two were never opposites, but complements, and that Itadori Yuuji-shaped pit in his stomach dissipates. Still, about three weeks later at breakfast he makes the argument that if anything you’re more akin to Tsunade, minus the gambling addiction, and that gets him rave reactions from everyone, including you, who is more than happy to show him your new slug shikigami as a means of commemorating your new Naruto kin. 

Believe that, Itadori. 

#5 — None of this matters if you don’t kiss her. You have to kiss the girl—or she’ll get mad enough to the point where she’ll kiss you.

The following month comes your indictment into the Semi-Special Grade hall of responsibility. Yuuta vaguely recalls Gojo’s lecture on how people don’t really get promoted to Special Grade—it’s classification you’re born or cursed with, like himself, or Yuuji, or Tsukumo—but, you, of course, defy all odds and expand everything Yuuta knows. Nobody is surprised—Yuuta thinks everyone was among the similar thought that you were undoubtedly unique amongst your classmates, in a way that was different from him or Yuuji. Being born with a body that generates reversed cursed energy instead of cursed energy is deserving of Special Grade status if you asked him; he doesn’t know what pushed the higher-ups into finally acknowledging your skill, but he knows it’s well-past due. And while he’s happy you’re getting recognition for your efforts, Yuuta would never wish to saddle you with half of the shit the higher-ups put him through. 

They better hope that Yuuta doesn’t find out that they’re plotting anything with you, lest they meet the end of his sword.

Part of your promotion entails a dual-degree program that will have you starting medical school next fall. Yuuta almost cries at the thought of you being sent away again, until you tell him that Gojo managed to pull a few strings this time—to fund everything and keep you in Tokyo. 

And even though you’re not licensed to treat civilians yet, you’re already more than experienced with taking care of and healing your fellow sorcerers, which lends Shoko’s promotional gift to be a shiny new office, right across from hers. Yuuta is the first person you invite inside, and he brings you a photo of you, him, Maki, and Toge from last year—honestly, probably the only photo the four of you have together—to christen your desk, and a plaque with your name on it for the door, that he may or may not have fantasized about it reading with your first name and his last name on it instead.

To no surprise, your office becomes a safe haven of sorts. Yuuta would define any time or place with you as a safe haven, but there’s something special about this place. Maybe Yuuta is still leaping from this being the second time you’ve chosen him. He’s the first person to see your office, the first person to sit at your chair, your first official patient when he stubs his toe against the corner of your desk (where he left the first decorative object). Maybe it’s a little far to say that this place has him all over it as much as it does you, but Yuuta likes the sound of that. 

When he comes back from gruesome missions, he’s invited to let himself in, no matter how much blood he’s covered in, and you’ll be there to take care of him. It’s not different than before—not different than even last year when he’d waddled in your shadow to the room across the hall and sat down with heart palpitations while you fixed his wrist—but something about this feels special. It holds a different weight than hanging out in your dorm or cooking together in the kitchen; this office is yours, the things you say and do to him here are confidential, the yearning for and almost-kisses you almost have are for you and him alone; within these four walls, you’re free to curse him completely. 

So, he’s understandably upset when your office becomes a cozy corner for the other students as well. Maki likes to take refuge inside to study alone, Panda and Toge have been caught on more than one occasion attempting to wrap gauze around each other like zombies, Megumi uses your supplies and basic first-aid lessons to prepare small kits for him and the other first-years, hell, even Gojo has been found asleep in your office on more than one occasion. He gets why people are drawn to you like a magnet, why you’re comforting, and welcoming, and a source of warmth for them, but that doesn’t mean that Yuuta likes to share you. It’s much harder to almost-kiss you this way. 

He must have pouted loud enough about it, because shortly after, instead of inviting Yuuta to your office for lunch, you ask him to meet you on the field. Not one to question you, he obeys, and soon, instead he’s met with an entirely new safe haven, sitting criss-cross inside your domain with all your shikigami slithering and fluttering and buzzing about him. A butterfly lands on his nose, and Yuuta’s nose crinkles. You lean in to let it crawl on your finger instead, and don’t lean too far back when you slowly begin to explain to him the intricacies of your domain and how it all comes together. 

It’s amazing, surely. Yuuta listens as best he can, but it’s hard when there’s a halo of butterflies around you, and a symphony of bees buzzing in his ear, and a slug kissing at his hand, and a snake coiling around his body and gently massaging his muscles, and your voice sound so soft and warm, and you look so pretty and, and, and he wants to kiss you again. 

He wants to kiss you really badly. He wonders if that’s part of your domain—honestly, he’d wondered if that magnetic, honey-like attraction he has to you is in any part influenced by your healing nature—wonders if the confines of your space exacerbates the flow of blood to his heart and his cheeks and his—

“Are you listening?” you question, that glowing, addictive smile on your face, “You know I can make the snake bite, the bees sting.” 

God, Yuuta wants to kiss you. He wants to live in the spring garden of your love forever, and ever, and roll around in the grass and drink honey with you, and kiss you and kiss you and kiss you. You could keep him here forever, he’d be perfectly content with living his days wrapped up in your curse. 

Yuuta shakes his head to snap out of his daydream, disrupting a few butterflies in the process. “I—sorry,” he apologies, “I’m listening now.”

You hum, folding your legs underneath your knees and sitting before him. Yuuta’s certain he looks slightly ridiculous, covered head to toe in animals and small insects and burning underneath your gaze—wasn’t this domain supposed to help people feel better? Is there no cure for lovesickness that you can use on him—or, at the very least, embarrassment?

“I asked you why you won’t kiss me.” 

Yuuta knows that if he weren’t in your domain right now, he would have fallen to a sudden death. “I—I, um,” words, Yuuta, words; a bee lands on his cheek, he takes a deep breath, “I’m sorry.” 

That doesn’t seem like the right answer, judging by the twist of your lips. Of course it’s not—because it’s a lie, and you know it, and you know he knows that you know it. How could he be sorry for wanting you, for spending every last waking moment breathing for you, hoping that you’ll end his laborious breaths and pour air into him yourself?

“You know, I brought you in here to make sure that you wouldn’t run or pass out on me,” you confess, reaching out your hand towards him; the tip of your finger barely grazes his cheek as you allow the bee to crawl onto you, “I worry about your heart more than I should.” 

You flick your finger gently, allowing the bee to flutter freely and your eyes to focus back on Yuuta’s, “Right now, in this domain, it’s mine to control. To stop, to beat.” It’s yours outside of here, too; to fix, to break. He knows. He knows, he knows, he knows. “Why won’t you let me have it, Yuuta?” 

Yuuta gasps, and despite his surprise, despite his extreme lovesickness, despite his dark desires, his heartbeat remains steady, his body remains perfectly tempered and cool, his voice resonates clearly—all because of you. 

“You’ve always had it,” he confesses, “Always. From the moment I met you.” 

He can’t read your expression. He’s suddenly hyper aware of the power struggle here; domain aside, you can hear everything about him, sense the slightest physiological change in him, alter any one of his bodily functions at your whim and Yuuta doesn’t know what goes on in you. Would it be wrong to confess that he likes it; that this feels like you having him, that he likes knowing you can take him? 

“I thought so, maybe,” you enlighten him, “Last year with all the calls and texts,” you lean over and set free a butterfly from his shoulder, “And then in the airport,” then guiding the snake to coil around your arm and around your torso, “And then I thought maybe you’d have said something when you were jealous of Yuuji,” this time your hand touches him, a feather-light touch to his elbow, “But you didn’t, and I was beginning to wonder if I was hearing your heart beat for someone else, instead.” 

Yuuta grabs at your hand erratically, “No—no. Never.” 

He’s senselessly in love with you, and if it weren’t for your healing hands, Yuuta’s certain his ribs would have cracked from the pressure of his happy heart by now; but then again, maybe he should ask you to let it break—let that fracture serve as an entry point for you and yours, to prove to you that it beats for you and you alone. 

“So then what is with you? You have a habit of giving girls your heart and not kissing them, or asking them out—is it always straight to marriage with you?” 

It’s torture hearing that word fall from your lips. He doesn’t have time to even begin to process it. Yuuta’s eyes flicker to the smile on your lips, the slight tilt of your head. He says something he shouldn’t, “Would you be opposed to that?” 

“I’d like a kiss first,” you tease, “Would you give me one?” 

And how could he ever deny you anything. There, with a harmony of beautiful insects and warm sunlight, Yuuta finally, finally, takes the last move forward to kiss you. It’s everything he wants and exactly as he’d imagined—he can feel the rush in his bones, the want in his stomach, the love against his skin when you fall into him. 

It’s one kiss, and another, and then Yuuta can feel your tongue against his, greedily falling into the rush of you. He’s everywhere, hands on your neck, lips on yours, body stradling yours when he carefully leans you backwards; Yuuta has you, and you have him, and he won’t let this moment go to waste. He pulls away for a moment, only a moment, to take in your kiss-swollen lips and commit this vision to memory. He’ll have to take another visual photograph outside of your domain, when your bodies are free to breathe erratically and equilibrium is broken so you and truly, truly, feel all of Yuuta’s love in earnest. 

He wonders if it’s the effect of your domain that prevents his nerves from running haywire when you take off his shirt, when you let him take off your pants, when you have your hands on his chest and his on your hips. It must be. Yuuta knows for certain that otherwise, he’d be a blushing mess of fumbling limbs and stuttering words. 

Still, Yuuta thinks, domain or no domain, he wouldn’t let this moment pass him. It’s not nerves when his hand brushes over your clothed clit and he hears you moan—even if it had been, that would have been the antidote to his poison. Lust, pressure, possession wash over him in excruciating waves. He wants more. He wants you. 

Impatience when he adds pressure with his hand, bliss when you buck your hips to add more of your own, greedily grinding against his fingers. Yuuta kisses you again, swallows your moans and feeds you his own when slips his hand past the barrier of your underwear, and he feels your warm, wet cunt against his fingertips for the first time, and when he pushes two fingers into your heat, he thinks he could cum right then and there, from this alone. 

“Yu—Yuuta, more,” you plead. Your hand on his neck, fingernails scraping into his skin that should leave a mark. They probably won’t. He’ll be sure that next time they stick. 

And Yuuta, unable to deny you anything, obeys. He curls his fingers inside of you, thrusting gently at first, and then with more confidence—and warning, when he hears you snarl about not teasing. Ironic, he thinks, as he watches your lips fall open, since you’ve had him strung along since day one. 

“I wanna—wanna cum with you inside,” you moan, a sound that Yuuta promises to commit to memory. Later, when his brain is working better, and the coil in his stomach isn’t so tight, and you’re not clenching around his fingers. 

You’re greedy, and Yuuta’s never realized it. You suck him in and still want more, and you must know that he’ll give it to you. It should serve as a warning, you have the high-ground to take him any which way you want—for a fool, for granted, for yourself, for nobody else; so what does it say about him that it only spurs his arousal, that it makes him impossibly hard and he can feel himself leaking from the thought of it. 

“I want that, too,” he reassures you, leaning down to press his forehead against yours, because you’re perfect for him, “But I want this first. Give me this first, please. Please.” 

He thinks you might cry. The rational part of him knows you can regulate it, that you probably won’t; the sick part of him wants to see it, wants to know what it takes to make you lose control. 

You call his name like a prayer, once, twice, and on the third time, Yuuta can feel it as much as he can hear it. He can feel the moment that your walls clench, and your eyes screw shut, and your body convulses around him. You’re beautiful, irreverent, and Yuuta thinks that being responsible for this is the greatest achievement of his life. 

He wears your orgasm with pride, raking over you as you blink your eyes open to him again. You’re lucid too quickly, he really is going to have to take the time to enjoy this somewhere less controlled later, eagerly wrapping your hand around his wrist and forcing them to his mouth. Yuuta groans when he tastes you on his tongue, nothing short of euphoric, and he’s sure to taste every last drop. 

You smile, and then laugh—an almost inaudibly giggle that has Yuuta smiling back reflexively. Like always, he follows your every move and succumbs to all your whims when you lean up to kiss him, and then coax off his pants and underwear, and line the tip of his dick up with your slit and pull him in, again, by the neck to bite at his ear, “Come on, Yuuta. Give it to me.” 

An order, a promise, a plea—Yuuta vows to fulfill them all, determined and spell-bound when he sinks into you. He can only imagine what it feels like for you, but for him it’s warm, wet, soft, snug, sticky—like honey, like a bee drawn to sweetness. It’s good, too good, Yuuta doesn’t know how to last when you feel this good. 

He can feel you everywhere, around his dick, your hands on his back, your breath on his cheek, your skin against his. He feels stuck to you, stuck in you, mind, body, and soul as one, unable to differentiate him from you, from you, from you. 

“Fuck,” Yuuta stares, carefully swiping a thumb over your browbone, conscious but not in command on how deep he’s thrusting into you, “You’re so—fuck, I love you.” He wants to hear you say it back, he needs to, he has to. He can feel it again, stomach in knots, and nerves on fire, and skin sticky, and Yuuta has to know—“Please, please. Do you love me, too?” 

You stutter, only from the rock of his hips into yours, reaching for his face and cradling it between healing hands, “Of course I love you, Yuuta.” His mouth opens, wobbly, and tears flow over his eyes—briefly, Yuuta thinks that it’s cruel that you’d let him cry; that you have command over every function in his body and that you’d let him cry, but he can’t bring himself to be upset. He’d probably have cried regardless, because hearing you say that you love him is a rush comparable only to burning tightness in his gut right now. 

You tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling his lips to yours when you finally let go together. Yuuta can feel you tight around him, when he cums; and an unfiltered harmony of moans and skin on skin when he lays on top of you, sinks into you. Your hands don’t leave his hair, and Yuuta finds bliss in your affection, in being in your arms, in being yours. 

He doesn’t know how long you two stay like that, he doesn’t know if physical time passes in your domain, but it doesn’t matter. He’d stay here forever with you, let you use the full extent of your prowess to eat his heart out as sustenance, bleed for you to quench your thirst. He’d be everything you need and more; he’ll make sure that he’s all you want when it’s done and over. 

[bilaudad]

god, no - I like want to pick up your mail for you and leave a basket of fresh baked scones on your doorstep just so you don’t ever have to stop writing loll

just trust yourself and keep going! <3

Ahhh I’m going to leave a more high-effort longform comment later but I read ch 12 and I just have to say rn:

1. You just keep on hitting every right note and none of the wrong ones when it comes to characterization and tone. Like the balancing act between the exact right notes of camp/goofy vs soft and sweet vs heartwrenching is not easy to do but by Somebody you keep nailing it

2. HAND STUFF

3. “‘I think you’re going to like it too much.’” I think I’M gonna like it too much omg

<3 thank you again for sharing

oh my gosh, what a compliment!! i'm glad the balance is hitting for you, today especially i was feeling discouraged about the fic because i was like man. this is 120k words already and not stopping until it's well over 200k. is it droning on? are people getting bored? i'm certainly not bored but it's SO MUCH and i would understand people getting turned off of it. but omg every ask/comment/fanart/etc i receive really truly warms my heart and motivates me more so i can't thank you enough for this ask, it arrived right when i needed it to <3

[poetlcs]

one thing I like about heartbreak high as an australian piece of media is it doesn't do that self conscious thing a lot of australian media does where it's fixated of it's international (especially american) audience. which is not only a symptom of general australian insecurity about our cultural exports (culture cringe ect) but also a very literal problem wherein australian creatives are encouraged and sometimes expected to cater to international markets over the domestic one. a lot of the jokes and references (especially in season 2) would not make sense to most international audiences, and yet they included them anyway. despite international audiences confusion following the release of season one over some of these aspects (particularly Missy and Malakai calling themselves Blak) it still decided to encourage those audiences to come into the australian cultural/political/social world rather than warping it to fit those sensibilities and I really liked that! they could of had the characters plays soccer or even rugby rather than AFL, but they didn't! they went for the particularly australian sport. they could have cut the engadine maccas or succulent chinese meal jokes, or chosen any other song expect for fkn untouched by the veronicas to be playing in the background of the dramatic scene, but they knew the australian audience would get it, and love it, and recognise this as an Australian Piece of Media with them in mind & I think that is nice! It's different!! it's unusual!!

[noralia20]

Unsaid... (Brian May)

Words count : 12k

Sum up : You never really talked about your family. But after a traggic event, everything comes back to you and you have no choice but to explode and tell your lover.

London, 1979. The city bustled with energy and a sense of renewal, the air crisp with the promise of winter. The streets were adorned with twinkling lights, shop windows displaying festive cheer, and a gentle snowfall added a touch of magic to the scene. Despite the chill, your heart was warm, brimming with a joy that surpassed anything you had ever known.

You had been dating Brian May, the iconic guitarist of Queen, for the past six years. It felt surreal sometimes, but it was your reality—a beautiful one at that. Brian was the love of your life, a beacon of light in your otherwise tumultuous past. Your relationship was a sanctuary, a place where love, trust, and mutual respect flourished. You shared everything with him, your dreams, your fears, your daily musings. Well, almost everything.

There was one part of your life that remained untouched by Brian's understanding gaze—your past. It was a shadowy place, filled with hurt and memories you had no desire to revisit. You had never spoken of it, and somehow, Brian knew not to pry. He respected your boundaries, and for that, you loved him even more.

This winter was special. Queen had just released "Don't Stop Me Now," a song that quickly climbed the charts and became a new anthem for many. The boys were ecstatic, their hard work paying off in spades. The success called for a celebration, a moment to bask in their achievement and let loose. For once, Brian wasn't consumed by tours, recording sessions, or interviews. He was taking a well-deserved break, choosing to spend his time with friends, family, and most importantly, you.

To celebrate the success of 'Don't Stop Me Now', you all decided to gather at Fred's house for a relaxed evening. The prospect filled you with happiness, especially since it meant spending time with Veronica and Dominique. Perhaps Mary would be there too, given her amicable terms with Freddie. As you stood in front of the mirror, attempting to tame your hair, Brian waited patiently for you, ready to head out.

Winter always held a bittersweet place in your heart. While it brought the joy of the holidays and moments like these with friends, it also reminded you of colder times spent alongside your family. One particular night stood out, etched in your memory like a scar that hadn't quite healed.

You remembered the biting chill creeping through the cracks of the walls, the frost painting intricate patterns on the windowpanes. It was a night filled with tension, the kind that freezes the air and stills the breath. Your family, wrapped in their own turmoil, seemed distant and unreachable. That night, words were left unspoken, wounds left unattended, and you found yourself retreating into a cocoon of solitude, seeking warmth where there was little to be found.

As you adjusted your hair in the mirror, a pang of longing mixed with apprehension washed over you. Winter had a way of stirring up buried emotions, reminding you of what you had left behind and what you had chosen to keep hidden. Yet, in Brian's reassuring presence and the anticipation of a cozy gathering at Fred's, there was a glimmer of hope, a chance to thaw the icy memories that still haunted you.

With a deep breath, you turned away from the mirror, meeting Brian's gaze with a soft smile. He reached out, his hand finding yours, a silent understanding passing between you. Tonight, amidst the warmth of friends and the glow of shared success, you hoped to forge new memories that would overshadow the chill of winters past.

"Hey, ready to go?" Brian asked softly, his smile revealing those endearing little fangs you had come to love. When you first met, he had been insecure about them, but over time, you helped him learn to embrace and accept every part of himself.

You took a few steps closer, leaning up to plant a kiss on his cheek, a gesture that required a bit of effort given his towering height of 1.87 meters. "As always. Let's go before Fred scolds us and we never hear the end of it," you teased lightly.

Brian chuckled quietly, knowing all too well the playful antics of his friend Fred. With a gentle squeeze of your hand, he led the way out the door, the promise of a warm gathering and cherished company awaiting you both at Fred's house.

During the drive, Brian was enthusiastically explaining the intricate process of creating music. His eyes sparkled with passion as he spoke, and you couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of pride for him. Yet, despite your efforts to stay engaged, your mind kept wandering, and then a flashback hit you like a truck.

"Luke, you can't just live off this!" The living room was filled with screams and shouts, a cacophony of frustration and desperation echoing through the small space. It was a cold February night, the kind that seeped into your bones and stayed there. The flickering candlelight cast long, dancing shadows on the walls, turning the scene into a surreal, almost dreamlike tableau.

Your throat burned from the relentless screaming and arguing, the words spilling out like an unstoppable torrent. This wasn't what you had envisioned when you and your brother escaped, hoping for a new life. The promise of a fresh start had seemed so tantalizingly close, yet here you were, caught in the same cycle of conflict.

"You don't understand, Y/N! It's only the beginning. We can make really good money," Luke pleaded, desperation lacing his voice as he stepped into the living room. But you were too blinded by anger to hear the hope in his words, too consumed by your own frustration to recognize his struggle.

"Oh, now I don’t understand? What I do understand is that you just dropped out of university, sold my car, and all of that for what? To buy a stupid guitar because Mr. Luke is in a band now," you mocked, your voice dripping with sarcasm. Luke's face flushed with frustration, his jaw tightening as he struggled to keep his composure.

"Where’s this going, Luke?" you continued, your tone sharp and unyielding. He opened his mouth to respond, but you cut him off. "Let me tell you where this is going. Nowhere. Right into the wall. This… music isn’t bringing you anywhere."

Luke’s fists clenched at his sides, the tension radiating from him as he listened to your harsh words. His eyes flashed with a mix of anger and helplessness, but you were too consumed by your own fury to notice.

"This isn’t what I had pictured when I told you we should run away from the house," you pressed on, your voice trembling with emotion. "We agreed that we would work through it together."

Luke seemed to shrink before you, his shoulders sagging under the weight of your accusations. "And we are—" he began, but you cut him off again.

"No, we're not," you snapped. "What you just did was a selfish move, Luke. It was about you and not us. If it was about us, you wouldn’t have thrown your studies away."

He looked utterly defeated, the spark of hope that had fueled his dreams now dimmed by your relentless onslaught.

"And have you ever cared about what I wanted?" he mumbled from behind you, his voice barely audible but loaded with emotion.

Those words sent you over the edge. Without thinking, you turned around and struck him across the face. Luke stumbled back, his hand flying to his cheek in disbelief. The shock in his eyes mirrored the immediate regret that washed over you.

"Luke, I'm so sor—"

"You're just like Dad," he interrupted, his voice cold and final. The words cut deeper than any physical blow. Grabbing his bag and guitar, he shoved past you.

"Luke, wait!" you cried, desperation seeping into your voice. But he was already heading for the main door.

You ran after him, ignoring the icy bite of the pavement beneath your bare feet. The cold air stung your lungs, but all you could think about was stopping him. Luke was already on his bike, pedaling furiously down the alley.

"No, no, no!" you screamed, pushing yourself to run faster. But he was too quick. As he turned onto the main street, you tripped, falling hard onto the cold ground. Pain shot through your knees and palms, but you barely noticed. Your eyes were locked on Luke as he continued to roll away without looking back.

You lay there, helpless and heartbroken, watching him disappear into the distance. The realization of what you'd done settled over you like a heavy blanket, suffocating and inescapable. Tears blurred your vision as you begged him to stay, your voice hoarse and desperate.

“Y/N... Y/N?” Brian's soothing, soft voice called you back to reality. You blinked, momentarily disoriented, and turned your head to the side. Brian was looking at you with concern from the driver’s seat, the glow of the red light casting a soft hue across his face.

“O-Oh, sorry. What were you saying?” you asked, your voice still a bit shaky as you tried to reorient yourself to the present.

Brian studied you carefully, his eyes searching yours for any sign of what had been troubling you. He repeated himself, speaking slowly and deliberately, “I was saying: I hope the song will work out.”

You forced a smile, pushing the dark memories back into the recesses of your mind. “Of course it will. You guys are legends. I’ve heard the song multiple times, and I’m sure it’ll be timeless.”

Brian smiled at your answer, but the uncertainty in his eyes lingered. He could sense something was off, though he chose not to press the issue. Instead, he reached over and gave your hand a reassuring squeeze.

Brian knew it happened quite often during this time of the year. You seemed always absent, a part of you perpetually searching for something or someone to appear. When you walked the streets, your eyes would scan the crowds reflexively, as if expecting a familiar face to emerge from the sea of strangers. At shows, backstage, you'd often find yourself studying the audience, your gaze lingering on each person as if waiting for one specific figure to materialize.

There were nights when Brian would find you awake, staring out the living room window with a cold cup of tea forgotten in your hands. Your eyes would wander, filled with a quiet yearning that spoke of an absence you couldn’t quite place. It was as if your very soul was looking, longing for something or someone that wasn’t there.

Brian had noticed this pattern over the years. As winter set in, your demeanor would change, and you became more introspective, more distant. But he never pressed you about it, respecting the boundaries you had set. He understood that there was a part of your past you weren't ready to share, a shadow that came alive with the cold.

He tried to offer comfort in small ways—through a gentle touch, a comforting word, or just being there when you needed him. He wanted to be your anchor, your safe harbor during these turbulent times. And he hoped that one day, you would feel ready to share that hidden part of yourself with him.

As winter melted into spring, Brian watched the change in you. The somber cloud that hung over you during the colder months would lift, and the vibrant, joyful person he loved would reemerge. Life would go on as always, the shadows of the past retreating once more into the background.

Brian finally parked the car in front of Freddie’s house. As you reached for the door handle, his warm hand and long fingers gently stopped you. Confusion flickered across your face as you turned to look at him, only to see a sight you hated: worry etched into his expression. You despised causing concern, especially for someone as dear to your heart as Brian. And then he asked the question that made your heart squeeze even tighter.

"Are you okay?" His voice was gentle, his concern palpable.

The simplicity of those words carried a weight you struggled to bear. Of course, you should be okay. Why wouldn't you be? Because you hadn’t seen your brother in seven years? Because he seemed to despise you, echoing the rift with the rest of your family? Because, in a way, you felt like an orphan now? But no, you couldn’t burden Brian with those thoughts. He deserved your strength, not your vulnerabilities.

You forced a small smile, hoping it would reassure him. "Yes, I'm fine. Don't worry," you replied, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. "The weather tires me lately," you added as an excuse, hoping to deflect his concern.

Brian took a moment to study you with his hazel eyes, his gaze lingering on your face as you attempted to reach for the door handle again. The concern in his expression was evident, and it made your breath catch in your throat. You knew he could sense when something was amiss, and the thought of burdening him with your inner turmoil weighed heavily on you.

"But... would you tell me if you weren't?" he asked quietly, his voice gentle but tinged with worry.

The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. Truth be told, you knew you wouldn't tell him. Not because you didn't trust him—Brian was indeed the person you trusted most—but because you couldn't bear to see the hurt and helplessness in his eyes. It was easier to pretend everything was fine, to shield him from your own pain.

"Of course I would," you replied softly, mustering a smile that felt brittle on your lips. "You're the person I trust most."

It wasn't a complete lie. You did trust Brian with your heart, but there were depths within you that even he hadn't fully explored. There were wounds you carried silently, scars from a past that still haunted you. And while Brian had seen glimpses of your struggles, you couldn't bring yourself to burden him with the full weight of your pain.

"Let's go?" you suggested, hoping to shift the focus away from the tension that hung between you.

Brian nodded slowly, releasing your hand with a reluctant squeeze. His eyes held a mix of understanding and lingering concern, but he respected your choice not to delve deeper. Together, you walked towards Freddie’s house, the soft glow of warmth and laughter beckoning from within.

You looked at Brian as he paused at the door, a loving smile spreading across his face before he rang the bell. As you stood beside him, he draped an arm around your waist, drawing you close with a gentle pull. Your heart fluttered at his touch, and you couldn't help but suppress a giddy smile as you looked up at him.

Brian returned your gaze with warmth and affection, his hazel eyes sparkling. Leaning in, he kissed you sweetly, the moment filled with tenderness and a shared intimacy. Just as the kiss deepened, the door swung open, revealing a grinning Freddie.

You both pulled apart abruptly, caught in a moment that felt both exhilarating and slightly embarrassing. Freddie’s teasing raised eyebrow only added to the amusement of the situation. "Well, hello to you too, darlings," Freddie greeted with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, clearly enjoying the sight before him.

You felt your cheeks warm with a blush, feeling momentarily like a teenager caught in a secret moment. Quickly regaining your composure, you took a step forward and greeted Freddie properly. "Hello, Freddie," you said with a smile, trying to ignore the lingering warmth of Brian's touch and the playful glint in Freddie's eyes.

Freddie hugged you back warmly, his voice low as he whispered teasingly in your ear. "If you two really can't keep your hands off each other, remember I have a spare room upstairs. Just don't be too loud for the kids."

Your eyes widened in surprise, and your cheeks flushed crimson, a blush that could rival a traffic signal. You turned to Freddie, pretending to be outraged, and playfully hit his arm. "Freddie!" you exclaimed in mock indignation, though the playful grin tugged at your lips.

Brian, standing beside you, looked between you and Freddie with a mixture of confusion and amusement. He chuckled softly, clearly catching on to the good-natured banter between you and Freddie.

"Oh, but you must be freezing! Come on in!" Freddie said warmly, guiding you both inside.

The immediate sounds of laughter greeted your ears, a lively mix of adults and children enjoying themselves. You shrugged off your coat, hanging it neatly by the door before following Freddie towards the living room.

You hadn’t even had a chance to introduce yourself properly before a small figure came running over to hug your legs. It was Robert, John and Veronica’s lively three-year-old son. Not far behind him toddled Michael, who had just turned one. The sight of their innocent joy brought an immediate smile to your face.

"Hey, bud! It's nice to see you too!" you exclaimed warmly, kneeling down to greet Robert. He squealed with delight and threw his arms around you in a tight hug. You laughed, feeling Brian’s amused gaze on you as he watched the interaction.

Brian joined in the fun, bending down to Robert's level. "Hey, Rob, how's it going?" he asked with a grin.

Robert glanced up at Brian, his face lighting up. "Uncle Fred was ranting that you two were always late," he declared with all the seriousness a three-year-old could muster.

You chuckled at Freddie’s antics, knowing exactly the kind of playful teasing he was capable of. "Robert Deacon! You little traitor," Freddie boomed in a mock deep voice, tickling the boy’s sides playfully.

Robert giggled uncontrollably, squirming in Freddie’s grasp. The room filled with laughter, the playful banter easing any lingering tension.

"You have quite the spy network here, Freddie," you teased, standing up and brushing off your knees. Freddie grinned mischievously. "Always good to have informants," he quipped, earning a playful swat on the arm from Brian.

Together, you and Brian finally made your way over to the group seated on the couches. Mary was already there, chatting animatedly with John and Veronica, who were nestled comfortably with their children nearby. The Deacons were also present, leaving only Dominique and Roger yet to arrive.

"I see we're not the only ones late," Brian remarked, drawing the attention of your friends. They greeted you warmly, and you ushered Veronica to sit back down, considering she was now five months pregnant with baby number three.

In the background, the TV played the news quietly, a mundane backdrop to the lively gathering. John, ever the curious one, leaned forward slightly and asked with a hint of teasing, "What took you guys so long?"

Brian glanced at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes before answering, "Well, Y/N here wasn't satisfied with her hair."

You rolled your eyes playfully. "Says you! You spent an hour in the bathroom taming yours, Mister May," you retorted, your tone teasing and light-hearted.

Laughter rippled through the room at your banter, the familiar sound of friends enjoying each other’s company filling the air. The tension from earlier melted away, replaced by the warmth of shared jokes and affectionate teasing.

Mary leaned forward with a smile, pouring Brian a glass of wine and teasingly adding, "Someone's got to keep up appearances." Brian mockingly feigned offense, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Guilty as charged," he admitted with a grin, earning another round of chuckles from the group.

As you all chatted and caught up, the atmosphere was relaxed and filled with camaraderie. Finally, Roger and Dominique arrived, their presence adding to the lively energy of the gathering. Roger, ever the epitome of cool in his leather jacket and sunglasses, grinned as he greeted everyone.

Roger's casual demeanor earned him a playful scolding from Freddie about their tardiness, to which Roger responded with a nonchalant shrug and a wink.

With everyone now assembled, the dynamics of the group fell into place seamlessly. Roger and Freddie bantered back and forth, their teasing laced with fondness and familiarity. Brian played the role of the calm mediator, injecting humor when needed to diffuse any escalating jokes. John observed the interactions with a quiet amusement, occasionally chiming in with his own dry wit.

Amidst the cheerful chaos, Dominique caught your eye and gestured discreetly towards the garden. Understanding her silent invitation, you quietly excused yourself along with Mary, Veronica, and Dominique, slipping out of the lively room and into the calm of the garden.

Outside, the air was crisp and cool, a refreshing contrast to the warmth of the crowded room. You found a secluded corner of the garden, away from prying eyes and eavesdropping ears. Surrounded by the soft glow of garden lights, you exchanged knowing glances with the other women.

In the peaceful solitude of the garden, surrounded by the quiet rustling of leaves and the gentle glow of garden lights, the conversation turned to more personal matters. Mary's voice carried genuine concern as she asked, "So, what's on your mind?"

Veronica smiled warmly, her hand tenderly resting on her growing belly as she sighed softly. "I just needed a moment away from the noise," she admitted, her expression softening with a hint of relief. "And to catch up with you all."

Dominique nodded in agreement, her thoughtful gaze scanning the garden as she spoke quietly. "It's good to have these moments," she reflected. "To remind ourselves of what's important."

You felt a surge of gratitude for these women, for their understanding and unwavering support in both the joyful and challenging moments of life. As you exhaled into the chilly night air, you added, "I think it's important for the boys. They're constantly together. But they also have us, and we're all in this together, you know."

Mary and Dominique nodded in understanding, their expressions reflecting solidarity and empathy.

Turning her attention to Veronica, Mary gently asked, "So, Veronica, are you feeling alright?" Her eyes drifted to Veronica's hand brushing over her bump.

Veronica's face lit up with a radiant smile. "Never been better," she replied warmly. "I hope it's a girl. John would love a girl, though he would never admit it, frankly."

You couldn't help but smile at the thought. "John would be such a daddy's girl," Dominique added with a chuckle, imagining the stoic John softened by the love of a daughter.

As the conversation continued, you felt a sense of peace settle over you. Here, in the quiet embrace of friendship and shared moments, surrounded by the supportive presence of these remarkable women, you knew that whatever the future held, you would face it together.

Veronica's playful comment about weddings and babies nudged the conversation into more personal territory. She winked at Dominique and you, her warmth and teasing nature filling the air.

"You know Rog, he loves freedom too much for now. But trust me, I'm working on it," Veronica added with a knowing smile.

You chuckled nervously, feeling a slight tension knotting in your stomach. The idea of starting a family had always been a complicated topic for you, especially given your own tumultuous past. What if Brian wanted children one day? Could you give him that future he might dream of, or would your uncertainties hold you both back?

"Me?" you replied, forcing a smile. "You know me, Veronica. I can't even picture what I'm going to eat for dinner. So, I'll just let the future come when it's ready."

Your attempt at humor masked the deeper concerns swirling inside you. Veronica's next question, however, cut through the light-hearted banter and struck a chord.

"But are you ready for the commitment, Y/N? Because I see how Brian looks at you. It's as serious as it was years ago," Veronica pressed gently, her tone thoughtful and sincere.

You glanced over at Brian, who was engrossed in conversation with Roger and John, his expression animated and relaxed. The love and adoration in his eyes were unmistakable, and a warmth spread through your chest at the sight of him.

"I... I think so," you replied softly, your voice wavering slightly. "Brian means everything to me, Veronica. I just... I want to make sure I can give him everything he deserves." Dominique placed a comforting hand on your arm, her gaze filled with understanding. "Y/N, it's okay to have doubts. It's okay to take your time," she reassured you gently.

Mary nodded in agreement, her voice kind but firm. "Just remember, whatever path you choose, we're all here for you. Brian loves you, and that's what matters." Veronica smiled warmly, her eyes reflecting unwavering support. "You'll figure it out, Y/N. And when you do, we'll be here to celebrate with you."

After a while of chatting in the garden, you all returned inside the house, only to find that the boys were no longer in the living room. Instead, the sound of their voices drifted from the kitchen. Curious, you and the other women exchanged glances and quietly followed the sound.

As you approached the kitchen, you could hear snippets of their conversation. "What about Bri, meet the family to finally ask her hand?" Roger's voice came through clearly, causing you all to freeze in place just outside the doorway. Fortunately, none of you had entered the room yet, and it seemed the boys hadn't noticed your arrival either.

"What an ungraceful way to speak of a proposal," Freddie remarked with a hint of mock seriousness. Brian hadn't spoken yet, but his silence spoke volumes despite his usual easygoing nature. You felt a flutter of nervousness mixed with excitement in your chest.

"Come on, Bri, don't be shy. We all know how much you love her. You were already planning on marrying her before you even asked her out," John reassured Brian, his voice gentle and supportive.

Inside, your heart skipped a beat. You leaned in slightly, trying to catch every word, your emotions swirling with a mixture of surprise and joy. It was both overwhelming and heartwarming to hear them discussing such a significant step.

Mary glanced at you with a knowing smile, her eyes filled with understanding and encouragement. Dominique squeezed your hand gently, silently conveying her support.

Veronica leaned closer, her voice barely above a whisper as she murmured, "Looks like our boys are planning something big." You nodded slowly, unable to tear your gaze away from the kitchen door.

As you stood outside the kitchen, listening to Brian's heartfelt words about your relationship and the hurdles he faced, your emotions threatened to overwhelm you. His voice, tinged with a mix of longing and frustration, cut through you like a knife. You had carefully guarded the painful memories of your past, shielding them from Brian and everyone else. The thought that your reluctance to open up was causing him such anguish tore at your heart.

"I know I do, but like Rog said, I want to meet her family and she’s so closed to the subject," Brian confessed, his voice laden with vulnerability. You felt a pang of guilt knowing that your avoidance of discussing your family history had put him in this position.

"Still?" Roger's surprised exclamation echoed in the kitchen. It dawned on you that Brian had likely confided in his friends about his desire to take the next step in your relationship, a step that involved meeting your family.

"I mean, I know she’s uncomfortable talking about it. But I... I thought that after so many years, she would open up," Brian continued, his disappointment palpable in his tone. The weight of his words settled heavily on your shoulders, filling you with a profound sense of remorse.

"That hurts like shit, you know? It’s like she’s not on the same page as me. That makes me doubt when I should propose," Brian admitted, his words piercing straight to your core. The realization that your silence was causing Brian pain left you feeling utterly helpless.

The girls exchanged apologetic glances, understanding the depth of your turmoil. Mary placed a comforting hand on your arm, her eyes filled with sympathy. Dominique squeezed your hand gently, offering silent support.

Inside the kitchen, the conversation continued, oblivious to the turmoil it had caused you. You struggled to find the right words, the knot in your throat constricting your ability to respond. How could you explain the scars of your past, the reasons behind your reluctance, without reopening old wounds?

In that moment, surrounded by the loving concern of your friends and the distant murmur of Brian's conflicted thoughts, you felt torn apart. You wanted nothing more than to ease Brian's pain, to reassure him of your love and commitment. Yet, the fear of reliving past traumas held you back, trapping you in a cycle of silence and guilt.

The girls understood you just wanted the moment to end as you stared into space. So Dominique faked a laugh and entered with Veronica playing along as if they had heard nothing from before. The weight of Brian's words lingered heavily in your mind as you re-entered the kitchen with Mary's supportive squeeze. Dominique and Veronica seamlessly shifted the conversation, their easy banter providing a welcome distraction from the emotional turmoil you were grappling with.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself before approaching Brian. Despite wanting to show affection, you kept a safe distance, planting a quick kiss on his cheek. His confusion was evident, but he played along, perhaps sensing your need for space.

As the group chatted, your thoughts continued to drift back to the conversation you overheard earlier. The pain of your family's betrayal and the scars it left were raw and unyielding. You couldn't help but feel like your trauma was casting a shadow over your present happiness, threatening to rob you of the love and joy you found with Brian.

Your brother's face flashed in your mind once more. You wondered how he was doing, whether he had found peace or was still haunted by the past like you were. The longing to reconcile, to apologize and seek forgiveness, gnawed at your heart. If only you could have one more chance to make things right, to hold him close and say the words you never had the courage to say before.

Lost in your thoughts, you struggled to stay present in the conversation. Brian's concerned gaze occasionally flickered towards you, his expression reflecting his confusion and concern. You knew he sensed something was amiss, but you couldn't find the words to explain the storm raging inside you.

The kitchen buzzed with laughter and conversation, but for you, it felt like you were drowning in a sea of unresolved emotions and regrets. You wanted to break free from the grip of your past, to heal and move forward with Brian by your side. But the wounds were deep, and the fear of confronting them seemed insurmountable.

Brian's concerned touch on your hand brought you back from the tumultuous thoughts that had been plaguing you. With effort, you managed to muster a half-smile and gently squeeze his hand in reassurance before refocusing on the light-hearted debate about the gender of the future Deacon.

As the evening progressed, you found yourself in the living room once more, the comfortable ambiance and the gentle buzz of champagne providing a temporary respite from your inner turmoil. You sipped on your second glass, enjoying the warmth it brought to your head without crossing the line into intoxication.

Despite the jovial atmosphere around you, the conversation from earlier continued to replay in your mind like a broken record. The weight of Brian's unspoken concerns and your own unresolved emotions pressed down on you, urging you to seek solace in a familiar but unwise habit.

Excusing yourself quietly, you slipped outside onto the porch, craving the solitary comfort of a cigarette. You had fought hard to overcome this vice, but tonight, the familiar ritual offered a brief escape from the complexities of your emotions. Wrapped in your coat against the winter chill, you lit up, inhaling deeply as wisps of smoke curled into the cold night air.

The rhythmic rise and fall of your breaths matched the soft glow of the cigarette's ember, a fleeting moment of calm amidst the storm raging inside you. Each exhale carried with it a mix of regret and relief, the nicotine temporarily soothing the ache in your chest.

As you stood there, gazing out into the quiet night, you felt a pang of guilt for indulging in something you had worked so hard to leave behind. Yet, part of you knew that tonight was different, that sometimes coping meant returning to old comforts, if only for a fleeting moment.

The porch offered a sanctuary of solitude, a space where you could gather your thoughts away from the prying eyes and well-meaning concerns of your friends. The cigarette burned down slowly between your fingers, each passing moment bringing a sense of clarity and a renewed determination to face the challenges ahead.

"I though you wanted to quit." As Brian joined you on the porch, his presence brought a mix of comfort and tension. You sensed his disapproval as he mentioned your effort to quit smoking, a habit he had always disliked but never openly criticized. His concern for your well-being was evident in his voice, though tempered with an understanding that tonight was different.

"Yeah, well, I was feeling like letting go for tonight," you responded defensively, taking a seat on the porch stairs. The soft glow of the cigarette illuminated the space between you, casting shadows that mirrored the conflict within.

Brian sat beside you, his gaze fixed on your profile as you avoided meeting his eyes. His concern deepened as he observed your distant demeanor throughout the evening, a stark contrast to your usual closeness.

"What's been up with you all night? You seem distant with me. It's unlike you," Brian gently probed, his voice carrying a note of hurt beneath the worry. The weight of his words struck a nerve, reminding you of the emotional distance you had inadvertently created.

You scoffed bitterly, your gaze drifting to the night sky that seemed devoid of stars. "Well, a lot of things are unlike me since you don't seem to know me," you retorted, the words escaping before you could soften their impact. The bitterness in your tone cut through the chilly air, leaving an uncomfortable silence in its wake.

Brian's expression shifted from concern to confusion, then to a trace of hurt as your words sank in. The accusation in your statement caught him off guard, and a frown creased his features. "What do you mean by that?" he asked softly, his voice tinged with a mixture of disbelief and concern.

You let out a frustrated huff, feeling the weight of the evening's revelations and the unresolved tension pressing down on you. "You should know," you replied, your voice betraying a hint of vulnerability beneath the bitterness. "After all, we're not on the same page."

His eyes widened in realization, a flicker of defensiveness coloring his tone. "You heard earlier. You eavesdropped on our conversation?" Brian's voice held a note of accusation, his own hurt surfacing as he processed the breach of privacy.

The air between you grew heavy with unspoken words and unaddressed emotions. You knew you had crossed a line, yet the words had spilled out in a moment of raw emotion and frustration.

The tension between you and Brian escalated quickly as the weight of unspoken words hung heavily in the air. His initial shock at your revelation about overhearing their conversation morphed into frustration, evident in the way he stood tall before you, his frustration palpable.

"Oh hush, we did not. We just arrived at the exact moment you said you weren’t sure about ever asking me to marry you," you countered, your voice tinged with a mix of defiance and hurt. Snuffing out the cigarette, you tossed it aside, trying to rein in your emotions as Brian spoke of wanting to meet your family properly before proposing."Just because I haven’t met your family. I want to do things properly and ask for your hand," Brian insisted, his tone a blend of determination and exasperation.You shook your head adamantly, cutting him off before he could delve further into a topic that struck a raw nerve.

"Stop right there. I don’t want to talk about it," you stated firmly, your eyes meeting his with a mixture of defiance and vulnerability.Brian, frustrated and at his wit's end, rose to his full height, towering over you. "You’re always so closed about that subject. For fuck’s sake, y/n, I’m your boyfriend! Not a stranger!" His voice carried a note of pleading, laced with the sting of feeling shut out from a part of your life.Feeling the heat of the argument rising within you, you stood your ground, matching his intensity with your own. "I fucking know that! But maybe if you considered my feelings, then you would understand that topic is sensitive," you shot back, your voice rising with each word. Brian raised his hands in frustration, his usually composed demeanor showing cracks under the weight of the unresolved issue. His hair danced in the wind, a visual echo of the storm brewing between you. "I understand, I always try to understand. But I can’t walk on eggshells every time I speak about your family if you don’t at least explain why!" His words were a plea for clarity, a plea to bridge the gap that had widened between you over the years.

“Well I don’t want to explain because I don’t trust you and myself.” The weight of your words hung heavy in the air, leaving a palpable tension between you and Brian. The hurt that flashed across his face cut deep, a stark reminder of the damage your unguarded words had caused. You immediately regretted pushing him away with such harsh honesty, knowing you had crossed a line from which there was no easy return.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn’t have…" you began, but Brian had already turned away, his silence a clear indication that he needed space. His terse suggestion to go back inside echoed in your ears, leaving you to follow him quietly, your head bowed with remorse.

As you reentered the house, the atmosphere felt strained, the group's lingering glances and hushed tones revealing their awareness of the argument. Brian settled into a seat, choosing a spot as far from you as possible, his body language closed off and distant. It was clear he needed time to process, and perhaps to heal from the wounds your words had inflicted.

Feeling the weight of guilt and regret, you tried to refocus on the conversation swirling around you, attempting to engage despite the emotional turmoil brewing inside. The effort felt futile, each attempt at normalcy overshadowed by the tension that hung in the air.

Just as you struggled to find your footing amidst the group, Robert approached you with a bright smile, clutching one of his favorite toys. His resemblance to John in that moment melted some of the heaviness in your heart. His innocent joy and the simplicity of his gesture offered a brief respite from the complex emotions swirling around you.

You knelt down to his level, returning his smile with a gentleness that belied the turmoil within. "Hey buddy, what have you got there?" you asked, allowing yourself to be momentarily distracted by the warmth and innocence of the child's presence.

Robert eagerly showed you his toy, his enthusiasm contagious even in the midst of the strained atmosphere. For a fleeting moment, you set aside the weight of the argument and the uncertainty that loomed over your relationship with Brian. Instead, you focused on the simple joy of connecting with a child who knew nothing of adult complexities.

As Brian watched you laughing with Robert, unaware of his gaze, John caught his friend's contemplative expression. Leaning closer, he offered a comforting perspective on the complexities of love and the weight of unresolved pasts.

"Love and the past are complicated. But that doesn’t make them worth less in our eyes," John reassured Brian, his voice carrying the wisdom of someone who had weathered his own storms. "One day she’ll come around when you least expect it."

Brian listened intently, absorbing John's words with a mix of hope and uncertainty. "But what should I do then?" he asked, his voice tinged with a hint of desperation.

John shrugged gently, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Love her, as simple as it seems unreal. Just be patient, everything will be fine."

Brian nodded thoughtfully, his gaze alternating between John's reassuring presence and you, still engrossed in playful banter with Robert. Despite the turmoil of emotions swirling within him, Brian found a measure of solace in John's words. He understood that rushing or forcing the issue would only push you further away. Instead, he resolved to continue loving you, giving you the time and space you needed to confront your past on your own terms.

Meanwhile, Freddie interrupted the poignant moment by enlisting Roger to fetch a bottle of champagne from the kitchen. Roger, ever the reluctant participant in domestic tasks, grumbled under his breath but complied nonetheless. With a dramatic roll of his eyes, he headed off to locate the requested bottle, muttering about being the group's designated errand boy.

Robert's excitement over the fire truck on TV momentarily distracted you from the tense atmosphere in the room. Smiling at him, you pointed at the screen and remarked, "Yeah bud, just like your toy." His eyes widened with fascination as he watched the flashing lights, oblivious to the weight of the conversation that had just transpired.

Turning your attention back to the television, you noticed everyone in the room had also become captivated by the breaking news. John reached for the remote and increased the volume, the urgency in the reporter's voice drawing everyone's attention.

"...it seems to be one of the most violent episodes that has happened in years in London," the reporter's voice echoed through the room. "The night took a bitter turn for those students who only came to enjoy a gig at the Orpheum in west London. Two hundred of them were here to watch a few bands but mostly one: Sunset Curve."

The mention of the band's name sent an unexpected pang through your heart. Sunset Curve — a name you hadn't heard in years, yet it carried a weight of memories and emotions you had long tried to bury. Brian noticed the change in your demeanor, his concern evident as he glanced at you from across the room.

As the news report unfolded with chilling details, your friends murmured in disbelief, their voices a backdrop to the tragic events described. The room filled with a heavy silence as the reporter's words pierced through the air, each sentence delivering a devastating blow.

“On these images you can see the remnants of the Orpheum after that tragic event. Around 9pm, as the band was in the middle of their song, 24-year-old Chriss Klain entered the bar and started to shoot aimlessly though the crowd.”

The words hung in the air like a shroud of despair, the gravity of the situation sinking in deeper with each passing moment. Your heart pounded in your chest as the reporter continued, each word dragging you further into a nightmare you desperately wished wasn't real.

“It’s to be trusted that the man was highly intoxicated. A few people were hurt and the police counts three dead already. Two young ladies from the crowd and the lead guitarist of the band: Luke Patterson.”

The world seemed to come to a standstill as the name echoed in your mind — Luke Patterson. Your brother. The lead guitarist of Sunset Curve. It felt unreal, a cruel twist of fate that shattered everything you thought you knew.

In that moment, time ceased to exist. Your thoughts whirled, grappling with the sudden and incomprehensible loss. You clung to a desperate hope that it was all a mistake, a terrible mix-up that would soon be corrected. But as images of your brother flashed on the screen, reality crashed down around you like a tidal wave.

Everything you had built, everything you hoped for, crumbled in an instant. The pain was raw, engulfing you in a sea of disbelief and sorrow. Your mind struggled to process the magnitude of what had just been revealed, unable to reconcile the vibrant memories of your brother with the horrific news unfolding before you.

As the reporter's voice continued, detailing Luke's role in the band and the tragic loss, your mind swirled with memories and regrets. The ache in your chest intensified, a physical manifestation of the pain that gripped your heart. Around you, the group began to discuss the horrific event, their voices distant and muted against the overwhelming weight of your grief.

"It was a horrific event," someone murmured, their words barely registering as the reality of Luke's absence settled like a heavy fog. The thought that you would never again have the chance to apologize, to reconcile with your brother, tore at your soul. He was gone, and with him went any hope of healing the wounds of the past.

Images of Luke flashed through your mind — his infectious laughter, his mischievous grin, the way he always looked up to you despite everything. He had been your baby brother, someone you were supposed to protect, yet your own pain and anger had driven a wedge between you. Now, those wounds felt irreparable, a gaping chasm that stretched beyond reach.

"The young man, only 26, was the writer and leader of the band. He wrote their most famous hit: 'Unsaid N/n,'" the reporter's voice continued, each word tightening the knot in your throat. "N/n" — the nickname Luke had given you when he was just a toddler, a playful twist on your name that had stuck throughout the years. The mention of the song he had penned brought forth a flood of memories, memories you struggled to contain.

Suddenly, the familiar melody of "Unsaid N/n" filled the room, its haunting notes weaving through the air. It was his creation, his voice immortalized in the music that now surrounded you.

Tears streamed down your cheeks uncontrollably as the music played, each note a painful reminder of the loss you couldn't comprehend. The melody that once brought joy and comfort now echoed with grief and shattered dreams. In that moment, the weight of your guilt and sorrow overwhelmed you, paralyzing your senses and drowning you in a sea of regret.

As the room buzzed with discussions and condolences, you felt detached, as if trapped in a nightmare from which you couldn't wake. The memories of Luke flooded your mind — his laughter, his antics, the moments shared and the moments lost. He was supposed to be here, alive and well, not a name on a news report, not a haunting melody on a television screen.

Through tear-blurred vision, you saw Robert trying to get your attention, his innocent voice lost in the cacophony of emotions crashing within you. Part of you wanted to respond, to comfort the child who looked up to you, but another part couldn't bear to face the pain any longer.

"No, it's not true," you whispered to yourself, the words barely audible amidst the chaos in your mind. "He's not gone. He can't be gone." Denial and disbelief clawed at your heart, refusing to accept the harsh reality that Luke was no longer with you.

With trembling steps, you rose from your seat, the weight of guilt and failure heavy on your shoulders. Every fiber of your being screamed for escape, for solitude away from the suffocating grief that surrounded you. You couldn't bear to hear his voice, his music, not when it only amplified the emptiness in your soul.

You made your way towards the exit, your movements mechanical, driven by an overwhelming need to flee. The room blurred around you as tears continued to fall, your chest tight with anguish and regret. Each step away from the sorrowful symphony playing on the television was a step towards numbness, towards a darkness where the pain might dull, if only for a moment.

In that moment of shattered despair, you felt like a failure in every role you cherished — as a person, as a lover, as a big sister. Guilt gnawed at your conscience, accusing you of failing Luke when he needed you most. The ache in your heart was unbearable, the void left by his absence echoing with the memories of what could have been.

As you moved towards the exit, your vision blurred with tears and your mind clouded with grief. The weight of the tragedy and the guilt of unresolved conflicts with Luke bore down on you like a heavy shroud. Each step felt like an eternity, a desperate attempt to escape the haunting melody that played on the television.

Just as you reached the threshold, Roger's voice cut through the haze surrounding you. His concerned tone pierced through the din of the room, but it was as though his words were underwater, distant and muffled. He stood in your path, blocking the way out, his eyes searching yours for any sign of comprehension.

"Y/n, are you okay?" His voice reverberated in your ears, but it struggled to penetrate the fog that enveloped your thoughts. The bottle of champagne he had found lay forgotten on the side as he cautiously reached out towards you, sensing your unstable state.

You tried to respond, to reassure him that you were fine, but your body betrayed you. Waves of dizziness washed over you, the room spinning relentlessly. Roger's concerned face appeared doubled, and the lights overhead seemed unbearably bright, adding to your disorientation.

Your breathing grew ragged, shallow gasps escaping your lips as your legs wavered beneath you. It felt as though you were on a boat in a tumultuous sea, unable to find your footing. The voices around you melded into a distant hum, indistinct and surreal.

Then, as if in slow motion, you began to sway uncontrollably. Your knees buckled, and you started to fall to the side, towards the unforgiving floor. Panic surged through you, but before you could hit the ground, Roger's reflexes kicked in. He moved swiftly, his strong arms catching the side of your head, preventing a harsh impact.

"Y/n!" His voice was urgent now, filled with alarm as he held you steady. The room seemed to tilt around you, sounds echoing strangely in your ears. You struggled to focus, to grasp onto any semblance of stability amidst the chaos swirling within you.

Roger's voice sounded distant as if coming from the end of a tunnel. The room spun around you, colors blending into a dizzying whirlpool of confusion and anguish. Your body felt weightless and heavy at the same time, limbs unresponsive as if disconnected from your will. The world tilted dangerously, threatening to plunge you into darkness.

The last thing you registered before slipping into unconsciousness was the sound of Roger's panicked voice calling your name, his hands catching you just in time to prevent a harsh impact with the ground. His urgency echoed in your ears as your vision blurred and faded, swallowed by the overwhelming tide of emotions and the crushing weight of grief.

In that fleeting moment between awareness and oblivion, you felt a strange sense of relief. Relief from the pain, relief from the suffocating sorrow that had gripped your heart moments ago. It was a fleeting respite from the unbearable truth of Luke's absence, a moment of fleeting peace in the tumultuous storm of your emotions.

As darkness claimed you, the world slipped away, leaving behind a void where thoughts and memories swirled like distant echoes. The echoes of Luke's laughter, of shared moments and unspoken words, lingered in the recesses of your mind, haunting yet comforting in their familiarity.

And as you drifted into unconsciousness, a single thought lingered — a hope, fragile and flickering, that somewhere beyond the veil of darkness, Luke's spirit still lingered, watching over you with the love and warmth that transcended life and death.

The room fell silent, all eyes now on the unfolding scene. Concern etched deeply into Brian's features as he rushed to your side, followed closely by Mary and Veronica. Dominique hovered nearby, her hands clasped in worry as she exchanged a frantic glance with Freddie. Roger's grip was steady as he held you upright, his voice a mix of urgency and reassurance. "Stay with me, Y/n. Can you hear me?" His words were urgent yet gentle, trying to anchor you in the midst of your overwhelming turmoil. You weren’t conscious anymore, your body all limp in his hold which made Brian’s heart twitch in panic. Through the haze, Brian's voice cut through, filled with concern and determination. "Let's get her to the couch," he suggested, his hands moving to support you alongside Roger's. Together, they guided you back into the living room, where they eased you gently onto the couch amidst a flurry of worried murmurs.

Mary knelt beside you, her touch light yet comforting as she checked on you. "She looks in shock, lift her legs up," she instructed softly, her voice a soothing anchor in the chaos. Veronica hovered nearby, her hand resting protectively on her belly as she exchanged worried glances with the others. Freddie appeared with a glass of water, which Brian held and splashed some on your face. "Wake up, my love," he urged gently, his hazel eyes searching yours with deep concern. Hoping the cool water would bring you back and provide a fleeting sense of clarity.

The atmosphere was thick with tension as everyone watched Brian's increasingly frantic attempts to rouse you. He shook you more violently, his voice growing desperate. "Y/n, please wake up. You're scaring me," he implored, his hands trembling as he tried to elicit any response from your unresponsive body.

John knelt beside you, checking your pulse and breathing. "She's breathing fine," he reassured, though the calmness in his voice couldn't mask the underlying worry. Despite this, Brian's panic only deepened, his calls becoming more urgent. "Y/n, please, you need to wake up," he repeated, his voice cracking with fear and desperation.

Freddie, unable to bear the sight any longer, sprang into action. "I'll go call an ambulance," he announced, his tone decisive as he hurried out of the room to get his phone. The urgency in his steps mirrored the collective anxiety gripping everyone present.

Mary continued to hold your hand, her grip firm yet gentle. "Come on, Y/n, we're here. You can do this," she whispered softly, trying to provide comfort and hope in the midst of the growing panic.

Veronica and Dominique exchanged worried glances, their concern palpable. Roger stood close by, ready to assist in any way he could, his usual confident demeanor replaced by a somber seriousness.

Brian's heart pounded as he held onto you, willing you to wake up with every fiber of his being. The moments stretched into an agonizing eternity, each second filled with the silent prayers and hopes of your friends surrounding you.

Just as Freddie was about to exit the room, Brian spoke up in a cracked voice. "Come on, Y/n," Brian whispered, his voice breaking. "Come back to me, please." His eyes never left your face, searching for any flicker of consciousness. The worry etched into his features was mirrored by everyone in the room, each silently praying for your return to awareness.

Finally, there was a faint stir. Your eyelids fluttered slightly, and a soft moan escaped your lips. The room collectively held its breath, the tiny movement a beacon of hope amidst the darkness. "That's it," Brian encouraged, his voice trembling with relief and continued worry. "Come on, you can do it." Slowly, your eyes began to open, the world coming back into focus. The faces around you were a blur of concern and relief, their voices blending into a chorus of reassurances and gentle urgings. Mary squeezed your hand gently, her eyes brimming with tears of relief. Veronica exhaled deeply, her hand resting on her belly, while Roger let out a small, shaky laugh of relief. As you blinked and looked around, Brian's tear-filled eyes met yours, and he let out a shaky breath. "Thank God," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. "You're okay."

Brian's hands cradled your face gently, his thumbs brushing away the tears that had started to fall from your eyes. "You scared me," he admitted softly, his voice raw with emotion. "I thought I lost you." His eyes were filled with a depth of concern and love that only added to the weight of the moment.

Freddie, standing just behind Brian, exhaled deeply and gave a small nod, his usual flamboyance replaced with a rare look of genuine concern. "Welcome back, darling," he said softly, his voice unusually gentle.

John, still kneeling beside you, gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You gave us quite a scare," he said, his tone only being sincerity.

The room, which had been filled with tension and worry, now began to relax, the collective sigh of relief almost tangible. The atmosphere started to lighten as your friends saw signs of your recovery. However, as the moments passed, the earlier events that had driven you to the edge started to resurface in your mind, bringing back a flood of memories and emotions.

Without warning, you violently sat up, provoking a concert of disapproving sounds from everyone around you. "Whoa, take it easy!" Roger exclaimed, his hands hovering near you, ready to steady you if needed.

Brian immediately tried to push you back down gently, his concern evident in his every move. "You need to rest," he urged, his voice a mix of worry and insistence.

But you swatted his hands away, your own hands trembling as you spoke. "Please don’t touch me—" The words got stuck in your throat, choked off by the sobs that were beginning to rise. Everything came back all at once: the news report, the image of your brother, the unbearable grief and guilt. It was as if a dam had broken inside you, releasing a torrent of emotions too powerful to contain.

The room was filled with an overwhelming sense of concern as they watched you spiral into a panic attack. Your breaths came in rapid, shallow gasps, and your eyes darted around the room as if searching for an escape from the suffocating fear.

Brian, noticing the signs of your escalating panic, reached out once more, his hands trembling slightly. "Y/n, look at me," he said, his voice a mixture of urgency and tenderness. "Focus on my voice. You're safe here. Just breathe with me, okay? In and out, nice and slow."

Freddie, sensing the gravity of the situation, crouched down beside you, his usually flamboyant demeanor replaced with a calm, grounding presence. "Darling, we're all here for you," he said softly. "Just listen to Brian and breathe. You've got this."

Roger, still kneeling by your side, gently placed his hand on your shoulder, offering a steady anchor in the storm of your emotions. "You're not alone," he reassured you, his voice steady. "We're right here with you."

Mary, Veronica, and Dominique exchanged worried glances, their eyes reflecting the shared concern of the group. They moved a bit closer, forming a protective circle around you, their presence a silent yet powerful reminder that you were surrounded by people who cared deeply for you.

John, trying to reassure little Robert and Michael, knelt down to their level, speaking in soothing tones to keep them calm amid the tension. His eyes, however, never strayed far from you, his concern evident.

As you struggled to catch your breath, the room felt like it was closing in on you, the walls pressing closer and closer. Your chest tightened, and a sense of dread threatened to engulf you completely. You felt trapped, unable to escape the overwhelming fear and grief.

Brian, still focused on you, started to take slow, exaggerated breaths, hoping you would mirror his actions. "In through the nose, out through the mouth," he instructed gently, his eyes locked onto yours. "You're doing great. Just keep breathing with me."

Freddie nodded, his gaze unwavering. "One breath at a time, love," he said encouragingly. "We're all here for you."

Gradually, their calm and steady presence began to pierce through the fog of your panic. You found yourself starting to match Brian's breathing, each inhale and exhale becoming a little more controlled. The tightness in your chest began to ease, and the room started to come back into focus.

With each breath, you felt a bit more grounded, the overwhelming tide of emotions slowly receding. The faces of your friends, filled with concern and love, reminded you that you were not alone in this moment of darkness.

Brian continued to hold your hand, his grip warm and reassuring. "That's it," he murmured softly. "You're doing great. Just keep breathing."

As your breathing steadied, the reality of the situation began to sink in. The grief and pain were still there, but they were no longer threatening to consume you entirely.

Once your breathing calmed down, the weight of the world seemed to press on your shoulders. You collapsed into Brian's chest, the sobs wracking your body uncontrollably. "It's my fault," you repeated between gasps, the words heavy with anguish. The rest of your friends, still unsure of the cause of your distress, exchanged concerned glances, their worry deepening.

Brian held you close, his arms wrapped around you protectively, as he tried to soothe you. "Love, what is it?" he asked gently, his voice trembling with concern. "If I had held him back, he would still be alive. It's all my fault. He was right. I'm just like Dad..." You spiraled deeper into despair, and Brian's grip on your shoulders tightened gently, trying to anchor you.

"Y/n, what are you talking about?" Brian's voice was tender, his own tears matching yours as he witnessed your heartbreak unfold. Tears streamed down your face, and in all the six years of your relationship, he had never seen you so shattered.

"Luke..." you managed to choke out, your voice barely above a whisper. Brian's expression softened in understanding. "The guitarist who just died," he said softly, realization dawning on him. His heart ached for you, knowing the pain you were going through. He held you tighter, letting you cry out the grief that threatened to consume you.

“What about him?” you asked, shaking your head as tears continued to stream down your face. “He’s not named Luke Patterson. His real name is L/n. He’s... he was my baby brother.”

Brian froze, his eyes widening in shock as the weight of your words settled in. His arms tightened around you instinctively, pulling you closer in a protective embrace. “Oh my god, Y/n,” he murmured softly, his voice filled with sorrow and disbelief. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”

The room fell into a stunned silence, each of your friends processing the revelation with heavy hearts. John, Freddie, Roger, Mary, Veronica, and Dominique exchanged somber glances, their expressions reflecting deep sympathy for your loss.

“You couldn’t have known, Y/n. None of us could,” Brian reassured you, his voice gentle yet firm. He held you close, offering silent support as you struggled with the weight of your grief.

“I need to go see him, Brian,” you whispered urgently, your voice trembling with a mixture of desperation and determination. You needed closure, to confront the reality of your brother’s passing and find a way to reconcile the guilt that weighed heavily on your heart.

Brian nodded solemnly, understanding the urgency in your voice. “Of course,” he said softly, brushing a tear from your cheek. “We’ll go together.”

The rest of the night felt like a haze, blurred by grief and shock. Roger drove you and Dominique to the hospital in silence, the weight of the situation heavy in the air. The waiting room was a blur of sterile white walls and anxious faces. When they finally brought you in to identify him, your heart shattered into a million pieces.

Your cries echoed through the morgue as you saw him lying there, pale and cold. You reached out, touching his hand as if hoping he would wake up, as if it were all a terrible nightmare. But there was no response, just the harsh reality of his lifeless body. The wound through his chest was a cruel testament to the violence that had taken him away from you.

In that moment, part of you wished he would sit up and scold you for disturbing his sleep, for waking him up from some silly dream. But deep down, you knew that would never happen. He was gone, and you would never see his vibrant blue eyes open again.

That night felt like the longest of your life. Brian stayed by your side through it all, his comforting presence a lifeline amidst the overwhelming grief. Finally, in the quiet hours of the morning, you found the strength to share everything with him. You spoke of the abusive household you both endured, how you had run away together to escape the pain, and the fateful night he disappeared after a heated argument.

You poured out your guilt, your sorrow, and every raw emotion that had been buried deep within you for years. Brian listened, holding you close, offering words of comfort and understanding. His love and support gave you the courage to confront the painful memories and begin the long journey toward healing.

As the sun rose on that tragic night, you held onto Brian tightly, knowing that despite the pain, you were not alone anymore. Together, you faced the darkness of your past and began to navigate a future where healing and hope could eventually replace the overwhelming grief.

The rain fell steadily, casting a somber atmosphere over the cemetery as the mourners slowly dispersed. You remained standing in front of Luke's grave, the wet earth underfoot and the gray sky above mirroring the heaviness in your heart. The flowers and photos around the grave were a testament to the love and impact Luke had left behind, even in the moments you weren't there for him.

Luke's bandmates had approached you with the offer to buy the rights to "Unsaid N/n," but you declined. Deep down, you knew Luke wouldn't have wanted his personal message to you turned into a commercial endeavor. You found solace in the lyrics, the last words he wanted to say to you—a silent apology that you now cherished, even though you never had the chance to hear it from him.

Your friends, respectful of your grief, stood a distance behind you, offering silent support. Amidst the grayness, you noticed a figure in the distance. It had been a decade, but you instantly recognized him—the man who had inflicted so much pain on you and Luke, the man who had shattered your family and your sense of security.

He stood under an umbrella, watching you quietly, and then nodded in your direction. The gesture felt like a cruel mockery of the agony he had caused. You turned your head away, refusing to acknowledge him or give him the satisfaction of seeing your pain

"I love you, Luke, and I always will. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you from the world. I'm sorry I couldn't give you the life you deserved," you whispered, your words carried away by the falling rain. Silent tears streamed down your face, mixing with the raindrops, unnoticed.

Lost in grief, you hadn't realized you had let go of your umbrella until a small hand grabbed yours. Looking down, you saw Robert standing beside you, holding out his own little umbrella, trying to shield you from the rain. His innocent gesture touched your heart, and you crouched down to his level, managing a small, tearful smile. "Thank you, buddy," you said softly, taking his umbrella as he ran back to his parents, leaving you alone again with your thoughts.

Brian appeared beside you, his expression soft and understanding as he watched you silently. He didn't say anything at first, respecting your moment of grief. The rain continued to fall steadily around you, creating a gentle backdrop to the heavy emotions that weighed on your heart.

After a few moments, Brian reached out and gently squeezed your shoulder, offering comfort through his touch. "He was lucky to have you as his sister," Brian said softly, his voice barely audible over the sound of raindrops hitting the umbrella. "You did everything you could."

You nodded, grateful for his presence and understanding. "I just wish I could have done more," you whispered, your voice catching with emotion. Brian pulled you into a gentle embrace, holding you close as you let yourself lean against him, seeking solace in his warmth and strength.

"You gave him love," Brian murmured against your hair, his arms steady around you. "That's the most important thing."

You held onto Brian tightly, finding comfort in his words and his presence. Together, you stood there in the rain, surrounded by the memories of Luke and the support of your loved ones, finding a small measure of peace amidst the storm of emotions.

Brian held you tightly, his heart breaking as he watched you spiral into despair. "Shh, love, it's not your fault," he whispered, his voice steady despite his own turmoil. "You are nothing like your dad. You're kind and loving. Please, just breathe and tell me what happened."

The rest of your friends exchanged worried glances, feeling the weight of your pain without fully understanding its depth. They stayed close, their presence a silent support as you continued to unravel.

With trembling hands, you clung to Brian's shirt, the fabric dampening with your tears. "Luke," you choked out, the name a jagged shard in your throat. "He was my brother. My baby brother, Brian."

"It's all my fault," you repeated, the words a mantra of guilt. "I should have protected him. I should have been there. But I pushed him away."

Brian gently lifted your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Listen to me, Y/n," he said firmly, his voice filled with unwavering conviction. "You are not responsible for what happened. You did not cause this. You did everything you could with the love and care you had."

Freddie stepped closer, his usual flamboyance replaced with a rare, quiet empathy. "He's right, darling," he said softly. "We all have our regrets, but blaming yourself won't bring him back. You have to find a way to forgive yourself."

Roger nodded, his expression solemn. "You loved him, that's what matters. And I bet he knew that."

Mary, Veronica, and Dominique gathered around, each offering a touch of reassurance and understanding. Their words mingled with the falling rain, a gentle chorus of support that surrounded you in your darkest moment.

Together, your friends formed a circle of solace, reminding you of the love and strength you still had despite the devastating loss. Brian held you close, his embrace a lifeline amidst the storm of grief, promising to stand by you as you navigated the painful journey ahead.

And life went on, the earth kept spinning, and gradually, the pain began to soothe. The ache in your heart remained, but with each passing day, it became more bearable. One thing remained steadfast amid the sorrow: your love for Brian and the memory of Luke. Nothing could change the past, but you were determined not to let it define your future. You clung to the lessons learned from Luke's tragic departure, vowing to cherish every moment and to honor his memory in every way possible.

As time passed, you found solace in Brian's unwavering support and the comforting presence of your friends. They stood by you through the darkest moments, offering understanding and empathy without judgment. Their love became a source of strength, helping you heal and slowly rebuild the shattered pieces of your heart.

In the quiet moments, you often found yourself listening to Luke's favorite song, "Unsaid N/n," the lyrics a poignant reminder of his spirit and the bond you shared. Each note carried a bittersweet melody, weaving through your memories and filling the void he left behind.

Looking toward the future, you held onto a quiet hope. Perhaps one day, there would be a Luke May who would carry on Luke's legacy, honoring his uncle in ways you had dreamed of. You envisioned a future where his memory would be celebrated, where his spirit would live on through the love and stories shared by those who knew him.

And as you gazed into Brian's eyes, seeing the depth of his love and understanding, you knew that together, you could face whatever challenges lay ahead. With him by your side, you found the strength to embrace life again, cherishing each moment and carrying Luke's memory in your heart forever.

[geminiwritten]

untouched ; billy butcher

fandom: the boys

pairing: billy x reader

summary: billy hasn’t touched you for months, and you’re frustrated, so you decide to invest in some skimpy lingerie in the hopes that he won’t be able to resist

notes: YES, this is (very loosely) based on the song ‘untouched’ by the veronicas and if you haven’t heard it, it’s a bop. also, i’m so sorry for the terrible british accent writing, and i’m sorry for the fade-to-black but i was too chicken to actually write all the smut. please let me know what you think!

side note: i would die for this man (billy butcher and karl urban)

warnings: a lot of swearing, beer, very light smut, and some google translated french

word count: 5848

You hadn’t originally planned for Frenchie to come along on your little shopping trip, it was supposed to be MM, but when he got a call from Janine, you couldn’t possibly have asked him to prioritise you over his own daughter. Hughie had offered to drive you, of course, but you decided that Frenchie was the lesser of two evils in this situation, and you refused to go alone. Lately, you weren’t the biggest fan of going anywhere alone.

“Ooh,” Frenchie coos, pulling a lacy baby doll from one of the racks and holding it up to his own body. “I think this would suit me, no?”

You roll your eyes playfully. “I think it would, why don’t you try it on?”

He giggles and throws the garment over his arm. “I think you, mon amour, would look ravishing in it.”

So here you were, in the middle of the lingerie section in one of New York City’s largest department stores, shopping for scandalous undergarments with Frenchie. You have to admit, he is a huge boost for your self-esteem, but you trusted him much less than MM to keep this little shopping trip a secret.

“What about this one?” he asks, holding up a bodysuit styled after Starlight’s costume that left even less to the imagination than her suit already did.

You scoff, “Absolutely not.”

He giggles again as he returns the bodysuit to its rack. You were doing your best to avoid anything that resembled the costume of a Supe, even if some of Queen Maeve’s designs did catch your eye. The purpose for which you were buying would definitely be negated by anything that looked like it had been produced by Vought.

“May I ask,” Frenchie says as he catches up to you at the next rack, “what exactly are you looking for, and why?”

“I just need some new underwear,” you lie. “The washing machine at that dingy apartment only works half of the time and I figured that buying more underwear was a more economical option than buying a whole new machine.”

The second part wasn’t a lie, but you still had to turn away to hide your pink cheeks.

“Ah,” he sighs, moving around the rack to follow you. “So silly of me to assume that this had something to do with Monsieur Charcutier, but I suppose you would not lie to me, hm?”

Your pulses races, pumping even more blood into your cheeks and making the huge store feel suddenly stifling. You ignore his inference and turn toward a shelf full of wrapped latex garments, ranging from underwear to bras, to suspenders and gloves. The items draped over your arm are mostly lace and straps, so you choose a pair of latex hot pants and hand them to Frenchie.

“Like this,” you say, “practical underwear, perfect for fighting. I won’t have to worry about them falling down.”

He smirks. “Of course, and perhaps you will need this to?”

He takes a riding crop off one of the hooks beside the latex display and offers it to you.

“Better than a gun, in my opinion,” you state, taking the crop and holding it under your arm that is already full of lingerie.

“What is it for if not to spank a naughty, naughty Supe,” he chuckles.

After an hour of browsing and dodging Frenchie’s attempts to get you to reveal your true agenda, you approach the check-out counter. A surly old woman serves you, grumbling between disapproving glares as she scans each item that is more scandalous than the last. You’re so busy trying not to burst out laughing that you don’t even notice the inclusion of the riding crop until she hands you the bag.

“Have a great day,” she mumbles insincerely.

“And you too, mon chéri,” Frenchie says with a wink.

You grab his wrist and drag him behind you as you b-line for the store’s main doors. By the time you reach the curb, you’re both giggling like idiots and wiping tears from the corners of your eyes while strangers watch you with wary expressions. It’s only a short walk to the car, but you manage to compose yourself by the time you’re both climbing into your respective seats. The engine sputters to life, and Frenchie swerves into the busy traffic in the direction of your current residence.

“Be honest with me, mon amour,” he says, and you look up from your phone, “what is all this about?”

The paper bag is nestled between your feet, and you can see a buckled strap peeking out of it. None of your purchases were at all for practical use.

You sigh, “I honestly don’t know, Frenchie.”

“Butcher has been distant lately, no?”

You nod, and he glances at you from the corner of his.

“It has been rough,” he says, “and I know he is not good with his emotions, even in the best of times, but I know he does care about you.”

“I know.”

He moves a hand from the wheel to hold one of yours. “You do not need all of this to make him lo-”

“Don’t,” you interrupt him, your pulse spiking with panic, “please, don’t say that word.”

“Mon amour,” he sighs, and somehow in French the word sounds a lot less intimidating. “You are beautiful, do not ever forget it.”

You smile at him and raise his hand to your lips to kiss his knuckles. “You’re beautiful too, Frenchie.”

He chuckles, “I know.”

It isn’t just that you’re afraid of that word when it came to Butcher, because there were so many more things to fear in this world, it was more to do with the fact that he hasn’t touched you in months. You knew, when it all started, that this situation wasn’t going to be easy and it definitely wasn’t going to be something that meant a whole lot to Butcher, but you went ahead and fell anyway. With the chaos of the cause you were all fighting for, and the uncertainty of whether or not any of you would live, you thought you’d be able to put your own desires on the back burner. You couldn’t have been more wrong.

It was good for a while, but then things got bad again and more skeletons crept out of the closet, and Butcher has all but forgotten about you. It isn’t that he no longer cares about you, because you know he does, but he’s been all work and no play for months now, and your heart is beginning to ache. And so is the place between your thighs that he is exceptionally good at satiating.

You might be stupid enough to fall for the man but you’re not stupid enough to assume that he might ever return those feelings, so you’ve decided to focus on the one element of intimacy you know he craves too.

“Looks like le Charcutier himself has returned,” Frenchie says, and only then do you realise the car has stopped.

Butcher’s car is parked at the curb in front of the decrepit apartment building that you currently call home, and you can swear there are new scrapes scratched along the passenger’s side doors. You tuck your purchases as deep into the paper bag as they’ll go before getting out of the car and following Frenchie into the building. You climb two sets of stairs and stop at the third door on the left, nervously chewing the inside of your lip while Frenchie fumbles with his keys.

“You know,” he whispers, pausing as he turns to you, “he might not-”

“Frenchie,” you hiss, “I don’t want to talk about the consequences, okay?”

He sighs, ���I just don’t want you to be upset if he does not appreciate this the way you want him to.”

“I don’t give a damn.”

You snatch his keys and jam the big rusted one into the doorknob, twisting it angrily and pushing the door open before he can say another word. You knew your plan had holes, but you didn’t have the patience to try and talk any sense into yourself because Butcher was the only thing on your mind. He has been from the moment you met him.

The first person you see is MM, sitting on the couch watching old cartoon reruns with a content smile on his lips. Hughie is in the kitchen, on the phone to his dad and by the sound of it, attempting to talk him through the process of rebooting his Wi-Fi router. Your frustration dissipates at the sight of normalcy, or as normal as it got for people who live the way that you all do. It’s been quiet lately, more reconnaissance than murder, and more time to plan and recover for when things inevitably go wrong.

“Hey,” MM calls, “how did you go?”

He immediately glances at the bag and grin splits across his face.

Hughie bids his father goodbye before tucking his phone in his pocket and looking to you, his frown turning quizzical. “What is that?”

“It is a- uh,” Frenchie puts a finger to his lips, “how do you say flagellateur?”

“You bought a cane?” Hugh gasps, “What the hell for?”

MM chuckles, “I believe Frenchie called it a flogger.”

“For the naughty Supes,” Frenchie says, pulling it out of the bag before you can react.

Hughie bursts out laughing as Frenchie moves like lightning and smacks MM across the bottom with the crop, a sharp cracking sound echoing through the room. MM yelps, turning to Frenchie with a murderous glare.

“Touch me with that again and I’ll shove it so far up your ass, you’ll feel it in your throat,” he threatens.

Frenchie smirks, “Do not make promises you cannot keep, vilain garçon.”

MM moves to grab the crop, but Frenchie is faster. He steps back and holds it behind his back, giving himself a light tap on the thigh and moaning wickedly. Hughie’s laughter bubbles up again, and even MM can’t help from chuckling.

You roll your eyes despite your amusement, “Come on, Frenchie, that’s enough.”

“Au contraire, mon petit chat,” he coos, “we are just getting started.”

“Who’s gettin’ what started?”

All four of you turn toward the familiar voice – gruff and always a little sarcastic – to find Butcher standing in the door to the main bedroom. His hair is damp and tousled, and his signature trench coat absent.

“Nothing, Monsieur Charcutier,” Frenchie says, still holding the crop behind his back.

“What the bloody hell are you hidin’?”

Hughie is struggling to hold back his laughter, his eyes watering with the effort. The boy is definitely sleep deprived, though this time you blame Annie more than the vigilante lifestyle.

Butcher takes two heavy steps forward and his brows furrow. “Is that a fuckin’ riding crop?”

“Oh, this?” Frenchie shows him the flogger. “This is Mademoiselle Y/N’s.”

He steps toward you and slides the crop back into your bag.

“We went shopping,” you say, forcing yourself to meet Butcher’s eyes despite the overwhelming urge to run back out the door.

He cocks his head, “You went shoppin’ with Frenchie, ‘n’ bought a fuckin’ sex toy?”

You nod slowly, feeling the blood burn in your cheeks. The air is suddenly thick, and you struggle to draw anything more than a shallow breath as you wait in silence for someone to say something. You know it’s bad when even Frenchie shuts up.

“Right,” Butcher glances at the bag in your hand before turning to MM. “Well, since everyone’s ‘ere, we might as well go over what we know ‘bout the rally this weekend.”

Hughie rushes over to the small dining room table to retrieve his laptop, and MM turns the television’s volume down to zero. Butcher looks back at you, and then to Frenchie.

“Unless,” he says, “you two had somethin’ better to do?”

Frustration bubbles up in your chest, and your embarrassment turns into irritation.

“Just let me get changed.”

You don’t wait for a response before turning on your heel and marching into your room, slamming the door for effect. You tip the contents of your shopping bag on the bed and begin stripping out of your jeans. It is hot in this dingy little apartment, since no one had yet been successful in getting the thermostat to work, so your decision to change into shorts and a loose button-up wasn’t totally uncalled for. It just so happens that you decided to swap your bra and panties for a sheer black bodysuit with a built-in harness that wrapped around your chest and waist, and down around your bum into thigh garters. You button your shirt enough to only just show the straps over the curve of your breasts, and make sure the garters are tucked under your shorts before remerging into the living room.

The boys are gathered around the kitchen bench, Frenchie and Hughie looking at the laptop while Butcher and MM point at what you can guess is a map on the countertop. You assume Kimiko is still sleeping, and no one was game enough to try and wake her.

“We’re not sure if anyone from corporate is scheduled to attend,” Hughie says, “but it looks like every member of the seven have been ordered to appear.”

You step between Frenchie and MM, right across from Butcher. Frenchie glances at you, his eyes dropping for less than a second to your cleavage before he gives you a cheeky smirk. You press your lips together to keep from laughing, and when you look toward Butcher you find his eyes already on you, or rather, on Frenchie. If looks could kill, the poor French man would be a pile of dust on the floor.

“It would be suicide to try anything at this thing,” MM states, “with all of them there, the security is going to be tight.”

“I agree,” Hughie says, “so if we go, it has to be lowkey, and we can’t be recognised.”

“So that rules out you and Butcher,” you point out, leaning past Frenchie to see the laptop screen.

“You and I can go, then,” MM points at a spot on the map, “we recon from the outskirts, and Frenchie waits off side in case we need an emergency extraction.”

“No,” Butcher says, his eyes trained on you with an intensity that made your spine feel like a gummy worm, “she’s not goin’ anywhere near this shit show. Her and Hughie watch from this buildin’,” he points at a building two blocks from the main event, “me ‘n’ you go in for recon, ‘n’ Frenchie ‘n’ Kimiko will be waitin’ nearby.”

You frown, “Hughie can do the surveillance on his own, and you can’t go anywhere near Homelander. I’ll go in with MM.”

“No,” he says again, “you’re not gettin’ that close.”

“This isn’t close,” you point at the map where MM had, “and if you’re worried then you can wait with Frenchie but Butcher, you can’t be seen. It’s too risky.”

“You wan’a know what’s risky?” he snaps, his gaze dropping to your chest.

You cross your arms, fully aware that it accentuates your breasts.

“Fuckin’ arguin’ with me.”

You roll your eyes and take a step back. “Fine, get yourself killed for no fucking reason Butcher, see what I care.”

Tension rolls through the room like a dark storm cloud, rumbling with impending thunder as it settles right between you and the man you’re glaring at.

“No one is going to die,” Hughie speaks cautiously, “we’re not going there for a fight.”

“I know that.” you snap, though your eyes don’t dare leave Butcher’s. “Tell him that.”

“Butcher,” MM says, “I know you want to lead, but she has a point.”

Butcher scoffs, “I don’t give a damn about whether I’m on the front line or not, but she’s not goin’ anywhere near those fuckers. ‘Specially if I’m not at her fuckin’ side.”

Your heart stutters and your resolve cracks. Your shoulders slacken as every measure of intimidation you had built up dissolves and the stupid but familiar feeling of warmth and longing spreads through your body.

“We’re not getting close, Butcher,” Hughie says, “all we need is-”

“That,” Butcher spits, pointing at the same spot on the map, “is too fuckin’ close.”

MM looks at you, waiting for you to argue some more. Butcher rarely listens to anyone, but on the occasion that he does, it’s often you. But right now, you’re tired and you’re sick of arguing with this man when all you really want is for him to throw you up against a wall and tear your clothes off.

“Whatever,” you sigh, “you’ve got to live your life the way you want, right, Butcher?”

You circle around Hughie, around the kitchen bench, and behind Butcher where the barely functional fridge is. Silence hangs heavy in the air as you open it, bottles rattling in the door. You take a bottle of beer from the shelf and shut it again, turning to the drawer where you last saw the bottle opener, but it isn’t there. Sighing, you turn on your heel to stand beside Butcher and lift the hem of your shirt to wrap it around the bottle top, using it to buffer your hand as you struggle to get the cap off. With a soft pop, the cap comes free and so does another button on your shirt, revealing the little gold buckle connecting the straps between your boobs.

A small, triumphant smile quirks your lips as you look up, meeting Butcher’s gaze much closer than before. His eyes are dark, his pupils devouring almost all of his hazel irises.

Frenchie clears his throat, keeping his own gaze locked on the map. “Hughie says that most of the roads will be closed, but if we park the van here,” he points to a side alley, “we should be able to leave quickly, if we need.”

“What about the perimeter guard?” MM asks, “They’ll have more than usual, and I don’t doubt half of them will be Vought’s B-listers.”

Hughie nods, “Annie said they’ve been flying in all week, from almost every state.”

You can’t focus standing this close to Butcher, feeling the warmth rolling off his body and from the corner of your eye, seeing him turn to you every couple of seconds. He isn’t subtle about it at all, and with his height advantage, you know he can see right down your loose shirt. When you try to focus on the map, you can see his hands in fists at his side, knuckles white with strain.

“What do you think?” Hughie asks, at which you only respond with a slow blink. He frowns. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sorry, just tired.”

You raise a hand to your neck and tilt your head to the side, rubbing at your hot skin and subtly letting the collar of your shirt slip off your shoulder. When you glance at Butcher, you know you’ve almost got him. His neck is red and jaw set as he watches you like you’re prey.

You bite your lip to hide your smile, surveying the map with a wicked idea when Frenchie, bless him, asks the perfect question. “Do we know where Homelander will be arriving?”

“There,” you reply, stretching onto your toes and reaching across the bench. “From there, he will walk through this audience before flying to the stage.” You arch your back as you trace your finger along with the directions, feeling your shorts ride up and the garters on your thighs dig into your flesh.

Another beat of silence pulses through the room before Butcher clears his throat. You look to him quickly, only to find him glaring at Hughie, and when you turn to the boy in question you realise that he too had noticed the black straps on the backs of your thighs.

“Sorry, uh, yeah,” he mutters, cheeks pink, “Homelander is the only one who won’t be escorted directly to the stage. They want to create hype, so he’ll be moving around to greet fans.”

“Well, we better make sure we’re not anywhere near wherever he’ll be,” MM says.

Hughie nods, “If he follows orders, he’ll stay within the barriers. Vought is wary and with all their assets in one place, they’ll be making sure even Homelander is on his best behaviour.”

Frenchie chuckles, “They do not want golden boy starting a civil war in the middle of the city, eh?”

“They know that there’s a huge chance of anti-Supe protest,” you say, “which raises another issue, access. No one in a two-mile radius will be allowed in without verification.”

Hughie turns his laptop to face the group, “I’ve been working on that, but I need to know who is going in so I can print ID badges.”

The four of you look at Butcher.

“It’s your call,” MM says.

He blinks as if suddenly returning to reality, and shifts awkwardly on his feet so his hips are pressed against the kitchen bench. “I don’t know,” he says, his voice thick, “I don’t wan’a think abou’ it right now, alrigh’?”

Hughie nods and closes his laptop, and MM sighs though his small smirk is betraying as his eyes meet yours.

“Well,” Frenchie says, “if we are done here, I am going to go get us something for dinner.”

MM tucks his phone into his pocket, “I’ll come with you.”

“Really?” Frenchie frowns.

MM glances at Butcher before turning back to Frenchie. “Really.”

“I’ll come too,” Hughie says quickly, “I-I mean, I was going to see Annie, anyway.”

Frenchie’s smirk is so wide you’re worried his cheeks are going to split. The three of them hurry out the door, muttering goodbyes and arguing over who is going to drive before leaving you and Butcher alone with the storm cloud of tension still rumbling in the air.

You down half your bottle of beer in one swig before sighing, “Well, as much as I would love to keep arguing, I’m going to-”

“Oh, you’re not goin’ anywhere, sweethear’.”

You only just have enough time to turn around before Butcher traps you with a hand on either side, gripping the bench with white knuckles.

“What the fuck are you playin’ at?”

You feign an innocent frown, “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

His breath comes and goes with a shudder, and you can feel it fan across your bare neck.

“I’m talkin’ ‘bout this,” he hooks a finger under the garter around your thigh and lets it go with a snap. “I’m talkin’ ‘bout you goin’ shoppin’ with Frenchie for fuckin’ sex toys.”

“Okay,” you smirk, “and what exactly is there to talk about?”

His head cocks, and you feel like prey staring down a predator.

“What is there-” his eyes narrow. “What is there to fuckin’ talk about? I don’t know, maybe when the fuck you started fuckin’ around!”

His rage, though intimidating, only turns you on. It shouldn’t, but it does.

“Am I not allowed to fuck around, Butcher?” you ask, watching the pulse in his neck race.

An emotion flickers behind his eyes, too fast for you to discern, but it’s strong enough to relieve his frown and he almost looks hurt.

“Do you want to fuck around?” he asks, his voice low.

You can’t figure out if he’s baiting you or not, or if it’s just the aching in your chest that’s trying to convince you that he might actually be feeling something.

You decide to guard yourself, keeping a smirk on your lips. “Are you offering?”

He releases his grip on the bench and rubs both hands through his hair, making it stand in jagged spikes.

“Look,” he sighs, “I know it ain’t any of my business, but if you and Frenchie are-”

“I’m not fucking Frenchie!” you exclaim, the past few months of frustration finally breaking out of the bottle.

“Oh,” he straightens, “good.”

“Good?” you echo, “For fuck’s sake Butcher, you are thick.”

His frown returns and before you can move, he traps you again. “What was that?”

“I said, you are thick,” you press your bum into the bench in a lame attempt to create distance. “If you think I’m sleeping with Frenchie- with anyone, you’re an idiot, but you know what? I already fucking knew that.”

“Yeah? And when did you figure that one out?” he asks, once again a predator who has cornered his prey.

“About three months ago, when I woke up and you weren’t there,” you say, fighting the lump in your throat. “You fucked off for three days, Butcher. No one knew where you were, you didn’t answer your fucking phone, and when you got back, you acted like nothing had fucking happened.”

You can hear your heart thumping in your ears as you wait for him to bite back, but he doesn’t.

You squeeze your eyes shut and sigh, “And now you won’t even fucking touch me.”

“Is that what you want?” he whispers.

You can only nod, too afraid that another word from your lips will turn into a cry. He breaks your stare and lets his eyes fall to your chest, slowly moving his body closer until it’s completely pressed against yours. You can feel him against your lower belly, not fully hard but definitely there and probably the reason he was hiding himself against the bench before.

Unlike the last time he touched you, this one is gentle. His fingers start at your jaw, just below your ear, tracing the sensitive skin right down to your collarbone and stopping at the swell of your breast. He groans, the deep sound rumbling from his chest and reverberating through your body. Your breath is shallow as you wait impatiently for him to kiss you, watching his lips like an addict yearning for a taste of the drug that only he can provide.

He denies you, though, instead dipping down to press his mouth against your bare shoulder and sending waves of electricity dancing across your skin. It isn’t exactly what you wanted, but its enough to make you sigh, and you roll your head back to allow him better access. His lips leave gentle kisses along your collarbone, the scratch of his beard raising goosebumps in its wake.

You feel like you can breathe for the first time in months, and your heart is beating so violently within your chest that you know he can feel it on his lips. A small voice at the back of your head is screaming, telling you to stop and push him away, because the further this went, the less control your head would have over your heart. Your heart that is threatening to crack a rib as it tries to surrender itself to the man in front of you.

When his lips leave your skin, you whine, but he doesn’t smirk like he usually does. He doesn’t make a sarcastic comment about how needy you are, or even look up to meet your eyes. His gaze is on your chest as his hands come up to the collar of your shirt, fingers curling into the soft material before yanking it apart. The buttons break, popping off the shirt entirely and scattering across the kitchen floor. He gasps, almost inaudibly, but you know you heard it.

This isn’t like before, he’s too quiet and too gentle, aside from the whole ruining your shirt thing. You feel exposed and vulnerable under his gaze, longing for approval as his dark eyes devour your scantily clad torso. His hands follow the curve of your body down to the waistband of your shorts, finding the button and popping it with much less force than they did the shirt. His fingers hook inside the denim and guide them down over your hips and past your thighs before letting them drop to the floor. Then he steps back.

You feel empty without his warmth, and you aren’t quite sure what to do with your arms while he observes you from the other side of the kitchen. Given, it is a small kitchen and he’s barely two steps away, but you suddenly feel like an exhibit on display.

You swallow thickly, “If it’s- uh, if you don’t like it I can-”

“I fuckin’ love it,” he says, his voice low and raspy as he closes the distance again.

Pressed against you, you can feel him hard behind his jeans, and you can’t help feeling a little proud.

He cups your jaw with both hands, his face only inches from yours. “I fuckin’ love you,” he mutters, before crushing his lips to yours.

The taste of his mouth sets your tongue ablaze, but instead of melting into a puddle like you know you should have, your spine goes rigid. The voice in the back of your head grows louder, clearer, as it rushes to the front and crashes against your skull, screaming.

He notices you tense up, and pulls back immediately, not offended but afraid. His frown is deep and his mouth slightly agape, realising what he’d said and knowing that it’s the reason for your reaction.

You stare at him, “What did you say?”

He takes a generous step back and runs a hand over his face, “Fuck.”

“Butcher,” you press, wrapping your arms around yourself to try and compensate for the loss of warmth.

“I’m sorry, love,” he sighs, “I didn’t-”

The lump in your throat rises, “You didn’t mean it?”

“No, no,” he says quickly, “I meant it, jus’ didn’t mean to say it.”

“You meant it?”

He nods slowly.

You blink quickly to try and repress the moisture filling your eyes. “You meant it as in… you love me?”

He nods again and you can feel your whole body beginning to shake.

“D-Do you love me like-like a vice?” you ask, your voice unsteady. “Like you love drinking and smoking or-”

“I love you like I fuckin’ love you, okay?” he snaps.

The irritation in his voice makes you flinch, and he regrets it immediately but refuses to move toward you again.

“Fuckin’ hell, Y/N,” he sighs, “isn’t it fuckin’ obvious? I haven’t fucked you in months.”

You frown, “Yeah, and why would that make me think you love me?”

“‘Cause I’m a fuckin’ twat who doesn’t know what’s good for him,” he says, “and sweethear’, you are too fuckin’ good for me.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You!” he exclaims, “You’re fuckin’ gorgeous and young, and you shouldn’t be in any of this shit, let alone in it with someone like me.”

It feels like your heart is swollen, pressing against your ribcage and squeezing all the air from your lungs. Your pulse races, blood rushing to your head and making you dizzy as you try to make sense of his words.

“Butcher,” you close the distance between your bodies, pressing him against the opposite bench, “I want you, and everything that you want.”

He keeps his arms rigid by his sides as he stares down at you, his pupils still blown with lust.

“If you want me to leave you alone, then I’ll stop,” you say. “If you want me to fuck off, then I’ll go, but no matter fucking what, I’m yours because I love you. I don’t have a choice about that, because I fucking need you."

He breaks your stare to look up at the ceiling, letting go of a long sigh before looking back down with the smallest quirk in his lips. “You’re gon’a fuckin’ kill me, aren’t you?”

You smirk, “I’ll certainly try.”

His hands find your bum, pressing you impossibly close as his lips crash into yours and it feels like your heart bursts, sending shockwaves through your body and turning your limbs into jelly. With a soft grunt, he lifts you up and pushes away from the bench, allowing you to wrap your legs around his hips. You can feel him completely now, rock hard and rubbing against you in the most delicious way as he carries you across the room toward your bedroom.

Your hands are tangled in his hair as you kiss him sloppily, pouring every bit of frustration and longing into his mouth until he pulls away and drops you onto the bed. He begins unbuttoning his shirt and your fingers find his belt, eye level with you as you clumsily unravel it.

“An’ what’s all this?” he asks, calling your attention to the pile of lingerie dumped on the bed.

You would have blushed if your face wasn’t already burning red. “Just some things I bought.”

“Jus’ some things, huh?”

He picks up one of the lacy red garments and holds it up, a devilish smirk stretched across his lips. “Who’re plannin’ on wearin’ all this for, love?”

“Well,” you giggle, “Frenchie was very approving of it all when I was trying them on, so…”

He throws the lacy thing aside and pushes you back on the bed with a hand around your throat. His legs straddle your hips, pressing against your throbbing core and sending jolts of excitement up your spine.

“If any other fucker ever sees you in this, I’ll cut his fuckin’ throat,” he whispers, his lips brushing your ear as his beard tickles your cheek. “You’re gon’a wear all of this for me, and I’m gon’a ruin all of it.”

You move your hips for some sort of friction as a soft whine escapes your lips, but his other hand grabs your side with bruising strength and holds you still.

“Do you understand me, sweethear’?”

“Yes,” you sigh, “yes, I understand, Butcher. Just fuck me already.”

His hand tightens around your throat and another wave of heat washes over you.

He tuts, “What have I said ‘bout manners?”

“Butcher,” you groan, clawing at the fastening of his jeans.

His hands leave their places on your body to grab your wrists, easily transferring both of them into one hand, restraining you as he sits up. He reaches behind himself on the bed, and you wriggle impatiently beneath his weight.

“Think I need to teach you a lesson,” he says with a grin, holding the riding crop in his other hand.

Thrill bursts in your stomach and you feel yourself clench, wetness pooling in the crotch of your bodysuit.

“You ready for me to show you how to use this thing, doll?” he asks, touching it to the valley between your breasts.

The leather loop is cool against your hot skin, even through the sheer material as he traces it down your sternum and all the way to your belly button. All you can do is nod, holding your bottom lip between your teeth to suppress the whimpers wanting to escape.

He pulls the crop back before softly smacking it against your right breast. The gossamer fabric leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, and his eyes light up at the sight of your taut nipple.

“You, my love,” he murmurs, caressing your left breast with the crop, “are fuckin’ diabolical.”

END.

[bevsi]

hi ms bevsi, long time fan, anyway i just wanted to ask: would ro like the veronica’s? australian emo band. she bears a strong resemblance to them & i love it. i also have a statement: read heartstrings last night and it’s so gooooooood love it love it

she’s crying in the club to Untouched

(thank you!! 💓)

[themaraudershavethephonebox]

PEOPLE I WANT TO KNOW BETTER

thank youuu @apalapucian for the tag. appreciate you <3

Last Song

Untouched - The Veronicas (gotta get that national anthem in daily)

Favourite Colour

The darkest blue/Forrest green - it's become my entire personality

Last Book

the last book I finished was Angus Thongs and Full Frontal Snogging (it's still my favourite movie and I never read the books as a kid) and I've currently got like 4 others on the go oops

Last Movie and Last TV Show

Watching Angus Thongs and Perfect Snogging as we speak ;) last show was Yellowjackets for like the 6th time

Sweet/Spicy/Savoury

all of the above

Relationship Status

nope

Last Thing You Googled

Love Actually 2003 (compiling my 24 days of Christmas movies list ask me about it it's about to be my entire personality for the next month)

Current Obsession

Also short form cooking videos like sorry???? I can't get over the food content on TikTok (NOT the Midwest mums food TikTok they are my worst enemies)

Looking Forward To

the festive season and getting to argue with customers who think they can pick on my 17 year old casuals just because it's Christmas

Open tag bc I think i've seen almost everyone I can think of tagged in this

[confusedhummingbird]

Starfire for the character game 😎

5. What's the first song that comes to mind when you think about them?

9. Could you be roommates with this character?

22. If you're a fic reader, what's something you like in fics when it comes to this character? Something you don't like?

5. First song I connect with Kory is Untouched by the Veronicas

9. I think so. I feel like Kory and I could cohabitate very well and maybe even be friends.

22. Naturally I enjoy Dickkory in fics. I also love when fic writers make her her kind and smart self and not just sexy. I can't read any Kory fics that involved Red Hood and the Outlaws or shipping her with Jason and/or Roy.

Thanks for the ask! 😃

[urmomsfavelesbian]

Good mornting heres some hot willows❤️

f for me??? 🥹 emmmm you shouldn’t haveeee 🥰 im giggling and twirling my hair pleaseeeee LOOK AT HER sorry im normal her hair and dress look so good togetherrrrrrr 😭 i need her also she was performing untouched by the veronicas in this look because she’s a LESBIAN and she WANTS ME

[shittinggold]

🎵 FUFFY!!!!!!!

Okay. OKAY. You have to have known that I would never be able to narrow it down to just one song. I am going to have to dump about a dozen songs on you, each corresponding to a different era of Fuffy. If that's a problem - tough, you knew what you were getting into.

To start us off, both Bodybag by Chloe Moriondo and Saccharine by Jazmin Bean capture that early-Fuffy feeling of "I'm not sure if I want to fight you or fuck you and frankly I think it might be the same thing".

I could cry when I hear you speak but that just makes me angry Wanna kiss you on your cheeks but I also wanna punch your teeth I just don't get it, I just don't know Don't know if I hate you or if I wanna date you Put you in a body bag instead of my bed

You make me afraid Come closer, wait no, go away Disgusted at the fact I care Cut you the fuck off like dead hair

Speak Your Mind by Alice Merton is the anthem for That final scene in Revelations. I saw her in London a couple of months ago and she was great, but I need to see her again until she performs this song.

And you know that it's hard for me To look at you and realize you're part of me But nowadays you seem so far away from me So out of reach Won't you speak your mind? There's a silence in the room and it is killing me Won't you speak your mind?

If you wanted something for their wild nights bonding in Bad Girls, then Untouched by The Veronicas is a classic, and 100% captures that vibe: horny, but perpetually unconsummated. Speaking of Bad Girls, the song that plays when they dance in the Bronze - Chinese Burn by Curve - is a very Faith song.

She burns friends like a piece of wood And she's jealous of me because she never could Hold herself up without a spine And she'll look me up when she's doing fine Because the rage it burns like Chinese torture She's just someone's favorite daughter Spoilt and ugly as she willingly slaughters Friends and enemies they're all the same

I know they're TSwift, and putting Taylor Swift songs on a fanmix is a cliche beyond parody at this point, but I have to shout out three songs from Folklore - Hoax, My Tears Ricochet and The 1 - for being unavoidably great Fuffy songs.

For what it's worth, any song that references "the one" instantly rings Fuffy bells in my head, because "the one" is SUCH a loaded term for them (being soulmates who are in direct competition to be The One). As such, I present Uno by Muse, which gets at that post-Enemies feeling thy both have of feeling like the other really messed up by not following them.

You could have been number one And you could have ruled the whole world And we could have had so much fun But you blew it away

For the same period, but more focused on the rage and denial that comes with self-recognition through another, we have Anything Like Me by Poppy, which is definitely up there as one of the most Fuffy songs around.

I'm everything she never was Now everyone's out for my blood Stop, you're making a scene You're coming at me with blood in your teeth You shouldn't be anything like me You shouldn't be anything like me You'll never be anything like me You shouldn't be anything like me I feel her heart beating in me Get her out of me Love is never-ending in me Take it out of me

While we're doing cliches, I obviously have to mention that Kiss With A Fist and Girlfriend In A Coma both exist. They're like the complimentary breadsticks of Fuffy mixes - they're not what you're there for, but their exclusion would be a choice. Knife Going In by Tegan and Sara is also another surprisingly appropriate set of lyrics given how on-the-nose the title is.

I feel the knife going in I'm feeling like she's not enough to kill me I thought it up and fast But I'm feeling it now And I feel like she's sleeping inches from me I let it pass

Before we finish, I wanna take us to S7, which is just a goldmine - so many songs about that specific feeling of "we were once friends and now we're so far apart". I'll shout out Bad Blood by Bastille, I Want You by Mitski, and Maria by AliceBand, but most of all a slight wildcard - Forget About What I Said by The Killers.

We used to tear it down But now we just exist. The things that I did wrong, I bet you got a list. Now I know how you remember And those moments that you choose Will define me as a traitor Stealing everything you lose.

If S4!Fuffy is more your thing, then we have When I Needed You by Carly Rae Jepsen and Crash and Burn by Maggie Lindemann to both capture Faith's jealousy and anger after waking up.

You picked him over me And you left with no apology Felt a knife in your back Yeah, you thought I was the killer You're looking in the mirror

Or for the Who Are You body-swapping soul-muddying you-and-I-have-begun-to-blur of it all: Bloodstream by Stateless.

Words can be like knives They can cut you open And the silence surrounds you And haunts you I think I might've inhaled you I can feel you behind my eyes You've gotten into my bloodstream I can feel you floating in me

(Yeah, knives is another trigger word for the Fuffy bells)

To finish off, I'd like to bring us back to S3, and Graduation Day Part II. For me, this is the absolute peak of love and tragedy that makes their story what it is. Strawberry Gashes by Jack Off Jill is a great Buffy-POV song that expresses her feelings of wishing she have reached out and done something different to save Faith, while also understanding that it was Faith's choices that led them to this.

Scold me, failed her If only I'd held on tighter To her pale white skin That twisted and withered away from me, way from me Watch me lose her It's almost like losing myself Give her my soul And let them take somebody else, get away from me Watch me fault her "You're living like a disaster" She said, "kill me faster" With strawberry gashes all over, all over me

But if there's one song that works for both of them at this moment, it's Switchblade by LP. If I had a gun to my head and was forced to pick one song to sum up Fuffy, it would be Switchblade by LP. Both the mood and lyrics manage to capture the soul of it - the wistfulness and melancholy, the lost love and lost innocence, the doom and destiny, the pain that comes intertwined with affection. The homosexual yearning. Seriously, go listen to Switchblade by LP.

We were electric We were wild, we were free And I thought that you meant it It's hard to accept it That it's not meant to be But I'll never regret it I don't, I don't No, I don't, I don't Long live the beautiful hearts Who find love and tear it apart Long live the beautiful hearts Who find love and tear it apart All of the hurt you've been hiding away Cuts me at once like a switchblade So take every stab you can take And I'll give it to ya, give it to ya I always knew that you'd cut me someday I fell in love with a switchblade And I know that you did the same And I'll give it to ya, give it to ya

[peachsukii]

REI‼️‼️‼️ ur tags ‼️‼️‼️

Dying to know what normal/not necessarily explicitly sexual song you’ve ruined for sakura forever? 👀🎤

nyehehehehe

Me: Sorry Saku, you caught me right as I was finishing. Did you need something? Sakura: Finishing what? Me: Myself! I couldn't see you today and I miss you. Sakura: ...what? What do you mean? Me: Oh, don't be like that. Here, I made a playlist that helps. <3 Me: "Rei shared the 'stupid love' Playlist with you~!"

The playlist confuses the hell out of him, considering a lot of it isn't full of sexually-forward lyrics, and he's combing through it like a detective to make sense of each song. He's even got a little notebook to jot down lyrics that jump out to him to figure out why it "helps."

He's a few songs in when he gets to Untouched by The Veronicas, and suddenly he's blushing like a madman. The song isn't explicit by any means and can be interpreted in different ways, but his mind went blank hearing:

I feel so untouched and I want you so much That I just can't resist you It's not enough to say that I miss you I feel so untouched right now, need you so much somehow I can't forget you Goin' crazy from the moment I met you

Thinking of...him?! There's no way. He can't fathom the possibility of someone feeling that strongly about him. Sakura was used to being lonesome, the idea that I found him attractive was a foreign experience itself, let alone touching myself to the thought of him. That's when it fades into Toxic by Britney Spears, and I think this one is self explanatory, but he's never heard this song before?! Not only is the beat attractive to him, but the way it's sung mixed with the thought of watching me writhe away on my bed to it makes him wanna faint.

Intoxicate me now, with your lovin' now I think I'm ready now, I think I'm ready now

Sakura takes a break to take care of himself at this point before returning to the playlist. There's only two songs left and he can't contain himself any longer, assuming the last two wouldn't be the "finale," per se. When he's done, he throws himself back on the bed and hits play, lost in the afterglow of his own orgasm as I'm With You by Avril Lavigne plays (specifically the cover with Yungblud). He didn't expect a ballad of sorts, but finds himself intently listening to the lyrics.

It's a damn cold night Trying to figure out this life Won't you take me by the hand? Take me somewhere new I don't know who you are But I... I'm with you I'm with you

He's lost again. This song sounds...sad? But also cathartic. Was that the point?

And then he gets to the end of the playlist, the Wicked Games cover by Stone Sour.

What a wicked game to play To make me feel this way What a wicked thing to do To make me dream of you

Suddenly, he's overwhelmed, a flood of unknown emotion taking over his body. That's when it hits him - it's a story, the playlist is a story of how he makes me feel as a whole, not just sexually. Before he can change his own mind, Sakura's on his feet and booking it to my apartment. He knocks abrasively on the door and his eyes light up when I answer.

"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever done f'me."

And the next time we're out at a party, 'Untouched' comes on and he BOLTS out of the room lmfao, so I tell whoever's in charge of music to queue up my playlist to torture him. He can barely keep it together for the slow songs, too, even though they're love songs, he's hanging by a thread. 😊

[xxfunk1b3atxx]

Here's my Gregory Horror Show themed playlist with small explanations for each track

Here is da link: https://music.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLIHao6UyVpHxENrwxrskmxqWwX54p-az3&feature=share

Untouched by The Veronicas: very Catherine of a song

Welcome Home by Coheed and Cambria: watched an old fan made trailer for the show with this song in it once, now the song just reminds me of it

Dancing Dead by Romanticide: just makes me think of Soul Collector, lel

I Earn My Life by Lemon Demon: Haniwa's story

The Abyss by Three Days Grace: escapism and a world created by your own mental illness

The Greatest Show Unearthed by Creature Feature: spooky noochies

Johnny Ringo by Crown the Empire: your desires fulfilled by losing your soul, also kinda makes me think of JB

Newport Living by Cute Is What We Aim For: petty like JB[[I actually made an animatic of him to the song :3 it's on my YouTube channel]]

My Darkest Hour by Scary Kids Scaring Kids: 2nd guest's ex

Chinese Tattoo by Roar: 2nd guest, especially the line, "you're always left with nothing but anger, and lord knows that it hurts"

Ready To Die by Andrew W.K.: soul collector, plus Cupcakes HD reference

Paperdoll by Kittie: lost doll, lel

Puppet Strings by The High Court: Gregory and Gregory Mama's relationship

Dive into the Madness by Dan Bull: actually helped introduce me to Gregory Horror Show :DD

Your Betrayl by Bullet For My Valentine: found the song from a Neko Zombie playlist :3

Symphonies for the Damned by Snow White's Poison Bite: spooky noochies pt2, electric boogaloo

The Only Medicine by Scary Kids Scaring Kids: le themes bro

Perfect System by Oingo Boingo: Stevie Haniwa again

Worlds by Farside: emocore Neko Zombie-esque shtuff :3

mirror by awakebutstillinbed: the second part with the beat is basically Neko Zombie dialouge, it's crazy >:3

Here Comes Mr. Pipe by Strelitzia: a few of the themes in this whole EP reminds me GHS but I chose this specifically cuz it's real funky

The Wretched by Nine Inch Nails: literally the plot of Gregory Horror Show!!! I only know about this song cuz I asked my NIN loving brother to give me ghs like songs based off the small knowledge of the series I've given him.

Heart Vs. Mind by I Prevail: le themes bro

beauty by awakebutstillinbed: makes me think of a few aspects in 2nd guest's story

Besitos by Pierce the Veil: 2nd guest-esque :]

I've been thinking alot about 2nd guest lately, lol She's so intriguing

[madsfrank]

The DLCs of New Vegas and Their Philosophical Importance in the Order of Release Date

Looks like September has brought about a fervor for New Vegas and this will be one of my entries to add to the pile. Some of this information is loosely based upon the actual game and in areas where interpretation is left up the the player, I did take some liberties. Overall this is just for entertainment and shouldn’t be used as definitive evidence for what exactly happened between these DLCs.

In New Vegas, the DLCs become the defining points of the game. They are designed to teach a lesson to the courier and hence the player about “what to do now?” In the post-apocalyptic wasteland. These DLCs are packed with philosophical takes and messages that vary depending on the type of person the player is or the future they have chosen for New Vegas. Here, I dive into the philosophical identities of the main factions and important individuals through the DLCs that connect back to ideology and plot. By no means is this a perfect explanation. I keep some parts vague that are supposed to be left up to the courier’s actions. However, this is to be used as a mental guide for the driving factors behind characters and the major messages one is to learn.

P.S. on each dlc section the main character’s past will be in chronological order as best as it happened to my knowledge as not everything has exact dates.

Dead Money:

The worst dlc in terms of gameplay but also has the most long standing message to relay back to real life and the main game.

Dead money follows the story of father Elijah. And Veronica and Christine. Elijah was a terrible elder in the BOS and with such left during a loss to the NCR in 2276 at Operation: Sunburst during the Brotherhood war (his next in line McNamara took over and they were weakened by this point so they went underground). Elijah then became obsessed with finding ways to destroy the NCR and in the process took his pupil (Veronica) away from Christine and when Christine (on a mission to kill him BOS orders) tracked him down finding tech in the Big MT (locked her away where she suffered brain damage from the testing the labs did).

He stumbles upon the Big MT during his travels in which he experiments on the Yangtze prisoners with explosive collars and beefing up his plan and defenses before going to the Sierra Madre in which he learned the location from Ulysses. He returns to the Think Tank after being captured upon his first entry (and escaping) and damages the robots to take control of the train network in order to escape. Which he does.

HERE IS WHERE THE STORY LINE CONJOINS

during this time another force Ulysses (spoken about more in later DLCs.) who was traveling to hunt the courier and find the past secrets of America and re awaken the old world to rise as a new home, a new power, saw this conflict. He points Elijah to the Sierra Madre and it’s hidden treasures which he hopes will kill the former Paladin and saved Christine to learn about the BoS which he realized was weak.

He then spoke to the Think Tank and challenged them to remember America. When they remembered a glimpse of the old world and what they fought for, they gave Ulysses instructions to return to the divide as “the voice of the old world” was left in the untouched missiles that had the power to reshape America through destruction much like the courier had done to his divide when they passed a package through the region containing middle codes that activated some missiles and mostly destroyed the place he called home and the place the though could become more powerful that the bull or bear.

Dead money focus on the ideas of letting go. Characters who can’t let go of goals or the past. Take Dean domino, still wanting to hold onto Vera Keys who was dead to her own disease and hand at the depression of being captured in the casino by the operator of the casino who was obsessed with her. He also is still determined to find what Sinclair kept hidden away in the vaults. Long after it would have mattered with the end of the world. Christine is obsessed with killing Elijah even though his lost ideals will lead to his death by the courier anyways. Much like how the operator of the casino was obsessed with keeping Vera locked away.

The courier has to also let go of the treasure they had found. The gold. They must let go of it and this is the most straightforward message. Caesar wants an idealistic society but when when he gets cancer, he can’t let go. House wants a idealistic old world society that he can never let go of (hence the strip)

It answers the question of “this is what I think is best for the post apocalyptic wasteland” and how most of it is just people clinging into a past victory or experience. (History would be Caesar and Joshua teaching the Blackfoot and beginning to take tribes over and becoming power blind.)

The NCR clinging to the constitutional law and pushing people who are just surviving in the wastes out via taxes and old world political ideals. This is also under the same message.

And of course, Elijah, he’ll best on power and controlling the Mohave to lead the brotherhood to victory, ultimately nearly destroyed his own people and went mad for the “power” of the Sierra Madre. Thinking he can make food from the vending machines and what not to build a new society where he can take over the Mohave (he begins to forget his brotherhood ideals.)

The gold in the vault is not that useful but it proves that this endless search for one’s own power was unfruitful. That even if they had seen the “gold” they would not be able to bring it back. AKA put there ideals in place.

Honest hearts

The story of the Malpais legate.

A new cannanite who joined the followers to spread his Mormon religion. Joined by Calhoun and Sallow. They were then held for ransom by the Blackfoot tribe along their pilgrimage and Edward Sallow trained them to use weapons because he was super smart and read books as a linguist and taught them to fight like Romans. Sallow become the leader of the Blackfoot tribe with Joshua as his first Legate. He takes the name Caesar and becomes mad with power as he makes his newly formed legion stronger soon after. It is during this time that he begins to take over the 87 tribes within a rough timeframe of like 25-30 years. He then spread to overtaking the NCR who had found the Hoover dam and wanted it for power as they spread throughout the region to establish rule. With five reports on killing Graham, the legion still held strong.

During this battle, the NCR managed to lure the legions more experienced legates and such into Boulder City where they were detonated. These legion individuals were under Joshua’s command.

Caesar (sallow) did not tolerate the loss of Hoover dam, he threw Joshua over the Grand Canyon covered in kerosene after the first battle.

But he lived. He states he found his faith again and lost the pride that Caesar had blinded him with. Even though his religion moves him to forgive Caesar, he still would easily strike down his followers while in new Canaan (his home)

That is until Caesar sends fourth Ulysses. For he brings the White Legs that he trained to destroy his home. In which Daniel (a missionary) and a few survivors including Graham would move to Zion and assume power amongst the sorrows and dead horses.

Graham’s story is one of redemption and blind revenge. He doesn’t know what the right course of action is anymore. He just has blind rage towards the Legion and now Caesar again. His story is heavily impacted by what happens to the leader of the White Legs when they are sent to hunt down Graham and the tribes in Zion.

Walking Cloud’s story is much of the same with Daniel trying to curb her rage by hiding her husband’s death. It’s like a microcosm of what’s to come with Joshua.

He has to grow as a person and realize that blind revenge will only sabotage his faith and morals and make him no better than the idealism that surround Caesar and the others like Elijah and House. His whole story is dependent on the helping of others and learning to assist rather than to take over or have full forgiveness to bad people or have blind rage. He must find a centre. A balance.

Old world blues

The story of a society stuck on loop.

The scientists in the big empty cannot accept the new world. They keep making new inventions for the old world which are fruitless, futile, and harmful to others. It is through this that following an ideology without change or recognition becomes dangerous. When Ulysses poses the question of them knowing their own history, it causes them, forces them, to remember their own past and what they have done. It ties together the main factions as well. Are all the main factions doing is forming a idealogical society that doesn’t reflect the views of the new world? Are they all just stuck on loop to try to create their own perfect vision which in the end will fail?

Each scientist also struggles to connect themselves to their more human form and loose empathy and compassion. They lose their humanity when the courier and Ulysses find them. Going as far as to trap a human away for experiments that will go nowhere (Christine).

In the end, these scientists have to find their humanity and use their tech to help the wastes instead of hiding it away (like the BOS to a extent) they have lost the connection to what it means to be a scientist and to help others as they shut themselves away and refused to acknowledge the new world as well, much like mr. House.

Mobius breaks free of the constant science that the Think Tank is up to and attempts to stop them from possibly hurting the wasteland. He also destroyed the data to the memories of the old world for the other scientists in a attempt to stop them from destroying the world with their science again.

In the process he ends up shutting the Big MT off from the rest of the wasteland with a barrier and shuts himself off with robo-scorpions he built. He left the Think Tank and made sure that the scientists would be too scared to leave by sending false messages to them and making them fear creating new technologies.

But when Elijah, Ulysses and others arrive, the Think Tank tries to push further to escape Mobius’s plans. By this point his own ideals had begun to deteriorate due to his use of chems and he had begun to go mad with the robo-scorpions and looses his own sight of fighting for the wasteland.

The courier then must confront him upon their own arrival and help the Think Tank and Mobius understand the world outside the Big MT and to stop loosing sight of the science that could save the wasteland and to stop living in a loop of the past from trauma.

Lonesome road

In my opinion the most confusing dlc

Ulysses’ tribe is destroyed by Caesar and his home with the twisted hairs (Dry Wells) was taken over by Vulpes who betrayed Ulysses by killing his group instead of working with them and Ulysses was forced under the Legion flag. He served as a nondescript courier for the Legion during this time as well and became a very powerful spy asset to Caesar.

It is also at this point we learn that it was him who discovered the Hoover Dam. Causing Caesar to go mad with the idea of it.

When Caesar became obsessed with the dam, Ulysses could not stop him. Even though he knew it would kill Caesar. Ulysses had seen how far Caesar would go to take the dam when he witnessed the burning of the Malpais legate.

Upon exploring the wastes for Caesar, he found the Divide and due to the destruction of his own tribe, saw it as a home for himself. He thought it could be better than the legion or the NCR. He stayed for a short time and wanted to use it to out think the Legion. However it was then taken over by the NCR while he worked for the Legion and while he was not there to protect The Divide (nor could he save it single-handedly) the Legion then sent supplies to take The Divide over. Placing legion soldiers and NCR soldiers within the town at once.

This is when the courier unknowingly brings a NCR package from Navarro containing launch codes for the missiles that lay under The Divide. This would lead to the bomb going off after the courier left and destroying The Divide and NCR and legion within (making them into the marked men. Filled with hatred with their factions for abandoning them).

Ulysses nearly died but was saved by medical Eyebots. Who were activated with the bombs. They believe he was a pre war soldier with the American flag on his back.

He blamed the courier and returned to the only man who accepted him, Caesar, in 2277 after the loss at Hoover Dam. This is where he would witness the burning of Joshua. (He was not actively in the Legion while the first battle happened).

When Caesar learned that Graham had lived, he sent Ulysses out after him along with the White Legs. This would be his last mission for Caesar as he left soon after to better himself and reawaken the history of America. During this time he took a temporary break as a big Horner farmer and a courier.

Later on, he found about about the old world technology in the big empty and travelled there. He followed the irregular weather patterns from The Divide to the Big MT in which he used the geographical maps there at the weather station to map out where he would build his base back at the divide later on where he wanted to face the courier.

This is where he meets Elijah and Christine.

During his time as a courier, so a bit in the past before meeting Christine and Elijah, when he was retired as a bighorn farmer, he was hired to carry the platinum chip. But when he saw the couriers name on the list he told Nash that they should carry it instead as he wanted to see the courier dead on this important mission for destroying The Divide. He thought the wasteland would kill the courier instead of him having to himself.

When the courier survived Benny and the Khans. He vowed to bring the courier to him in The Divide.

When the courier is in The Divide, they are forced to walk the lonesome road and go through the travels and horrors that Ulysses had to go through when The Divide was destroyed and in the end, the courier is faced with Ulysses wanting to destroy the Mohave and deciding to make him see the light with the couriers faction or killing him.

Ulysses can also be forced to accept that it is these individual people that hold the new world together and that the old world and it’s pointless to murder all who wave the flag of the bear and bull. An important development in the concept of him “letting go” of the old world and his idea of a home. His idea of building up something as great as the old world once was. Ulysses is still a man. He’s still idealistic in that he wants to form his own home. One based in old world values with new world truths and while the divide seems like a decent plan for him, he soon falls victim to blind rage for the NCR and Legion. Yes, they both help to destroy his home, but in turn, he becomes just as violent as they were to him. Which removes him from this new independent plan and sends him spiraling into only removing the ideologies of the bear and Bull.

(He also makes it very clear that even a independent Vegas would fail under house and maybe even under the courier. So this part is truly left to the couriers own faction.)

This dlc is all about the importance of home. And that it may not be the place where you were born. It also touches on how to move on from a home. Moving on from idealistic ideas out in place by factions as well. Seeing the world for what it is and truly being alone.

Another important character here is the copy of ED-E who has been created by the Enclave by a doctor with good morals and who didn’t want to see his tech harmed (Whitley) and he sent this ED-E to navarro not knowing it had fallen to NCR forces. This Ed-e contained more logs on Enclave scientist Dr Whitley than the original does after the original was damaged but both contained lost information on the Enclave that Whitley had sent out to try to send to other parts of the Enclave. However the original was taken down near Primm. The copy had data downloaded from the original ED-E upon the courier entering the divide.

This is just important as it established another character desperately searching for navarro even though it has fallen. With the hollow words of its old master and a goal (much like houses, Caesars, and Elijah’s) that can never be accomplished.

Overall, idealistic societies are formed off of the opinions of the few. These societies falter as we reduce them to just a namesake. A flag. There are people within these flags, caught up within the ideals of their leaders and rulers. Even Ulysses becomes blind to his own former goals of a community of people working together without a flag. A home. Until those individual people are recognized, until they, the small groups that lie among the Mojave, the tribes and those in towns like the divide before it’s destruction, are recognized as part of the world they inhabit instead of just ideals of their masters and gods….war never changes.