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rraaaannnn · 18 days ago

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"All Yn wanted was a peaceful new start. Quiet mornings, calm neighbors, maybe a cat. What she got instead… was Hanni — a human hurricane with a gummy smile and zero concept of personal space."

FEM READER

—

You had exactly zero expectations when you moved into the new apartment.

All you wanted was a quiet room, a working fridge, and a roommate who didn’t smell like expired monster energy and abandonment issues. You didn’t need friends. You didn’t need chaos. You didn’t need… her.

You’d barely stepped into the shared space—box in one hand, iced coffee in the other—when the universe personally said: “Oh, babe. That’s cute. Let me ruin your life real quick.”

A scream echoed from inside the apartment.

Not a normal scream. Not a “there’s a bug” scream.

A full-on, blood-curdling, I-just-saw-God-and-she-owes-me-money type of scream.

You froze in the doorway.

And then, she came running out of the kitchen.

Wearing one sock, a Hello Kitty crop top, and oven mitts on both hands. There was flour in her hair. And was that… a slice of cheese stuck to her elbow?

“Oh my god,” she gasped when she saw you, eyes wide like a raccoon caught in the fridge light. “You’re real.”

“…I’m your roommate,” you said slowly, eyes flicking to the literal trail of chaos behind her. “You almost made me drop my coffee.”

“Wait—no! That would’ve been tragic.” She paused dramatically, putting her oven-mitt hands over her heart. “Your coffee is, like, the only thing keeping you alive, huh?”

“…How do you know that?”

She stepped closer, eyes squinting at your face like she was trying to read a very complicated manual. “Dark circles. Mild caffeine addiction. Quiet rage in the eyes. I know your type.”

You stared at her. She grinned. You blinked once.

“…You’re insane.”

She beamed wider. “People say that, yeah.”

You sighed, stepping past her and toward your room, already exhausted. “This is going to be hell.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, roomie,” she called after you. “I’m Hanni! With an ‘i’ and chaotic energy by birth!”

You shut the door behind you. Not hard. But not gently either. This was fine. Everything was fine. You just needed to survive the semester and maybe not catch fire in the process.

You learned quickly that Hanni didn’t believe in rules. Or silence. Or logic.

She cooked ramen noodles in the coffee pot. She sang One Direction at full volume in the shower, adding dramatic gasps and fake sobs like she was in a soap opera. She once brought home a cat and swore it was a stray. (It had a collar. And a sweater.)

But for some reason… she made everything feel like a fever dream you didn’t want to wake up from.

She was loud and messy and exhausting. But she was also funny. And sweet. And lowkey emotionally intelligent in a way that made you uncomfortable.

Like the time she brought you a heating pad and cookies when you were too tired to get out of bed. Or the time she noticed your breathing get tight after a phone call and wordlessly put on your favorite show and sat beside you—not talking, just there.

You didn’t ask her to. She just… knew.

And that was the most terrifying part.

Three weeks in, you found her asleep on the couch. Again.

There was a half-eaten bag of chips on her stomach and some kind of glitter on her cheek. You don’t even know where the glitter keeps coming from. At this point, it might be embedded in her skin.

You stood there for a second, arms crossed, pretending you weren’t soft. Pretending your heart didn’t stutter at the way her nose scrunched in her sleep. Pretending you weren’t… feeling things.

God. You were so screwed.

And then, in the quiet of the room, she mumbled in her sleep, half-smiling:

“...hey sleepyhead... I saved you the last chip…”

Your heart did a little backflip.

You were so, so screwed.

You had one goal.

Buy groceries. Nothing fancy. Just milk, cereal, maybe some frozen dumplings if life felt generous. You made a list. You put on your headphones. You mentally prepared to walk through the aisles like a fully functioning adult.

And then Hanni said, “Wait, I’ll come with you.”

You should’ve said no.

But you looked at her—standing there in an oversized hoodie, mismatched socks, and sunglasses that did absolutely nothing to hide the chaos in her soul—and you said:

“…Fine. But we’re not buying any more glitter.”

She gasped like you told her her hamster died. “First of all, glitter is a lifestyle. Second of all, we’re definitely buying glitter now.”

You regretted everything.

Twenty minutes later, you were pushing a cart with one wheel that screamed like a dying bird, and Hanni was walking beside you with a can of whipped cream in each hand like they were weapons.

“We don’t need whipped cream,” you muttered, crossing another item off your mental list.

“But what if we do?” she said, dramatically throwing her head back. “What if we have a whipped cream emergency?”

“There’s no such thing.”

“There is if you believe.”

You gave her a look. The kind of look that said I haven’t slept in 3 days and you’re the reason why.

She winked.

You turned the corner into the cereal aisle, ready to speed through it, but Hanni stopped. Suddenly. Like she’d seen a ghost.

You barely had time to register before you crashed into her. “Dude—”

“Shh,” she whispered, eyes narrowed at something—or someone—down the aisle. “It’s my nemesis.”

“…Your what.”

“That girl. The one in the crop top. She stole my lunch in high school and told everyone I cried about it.”

“Did you?”

“Yes, but that’s not the point.”

You stared at her, deadpan. “You’ve been holding a grudge over a sandwich for five years?”

“It was a good sandwich,” she said solemnly. “There was avocado.”

You groaned and grabbed the first box of cereal you could find.

She followed you again, but this time—silent. Until she wasn’t.

“Hey, do you think if we got matching hoodies people would think we were dating?”

You almost choked on air.

“Wh—what?”

She shrugged, totally nonchalant. “I’m just saying. People assume stuff. Might as well lean into it. We’d be a hot couple, right?”

Your brain lagged like bad WiFi.

“…Do you want people to think we’re dating?”

She paused, turning to face you full-on. “Would it be that bad?”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

“...You’re holding a tub of whipped cream and a bag of mini marshmallows. You look like a five-year-old left unsupervised.”

She grinned. “So that’s a no?”

You turned away before she could see the way your ears turned red.

Later that night, you sat on the couch with your legs tucked under you, trying to watch a dumb reality show while Hanni laid sideways across the cushions with her head practically in your lap, whispering commentary like:

“She’s lying. Look at her face. That’s a liar face.” “God, I hope they break up. This is so toxic. I love it.” “Do you think I’d survive on this show? Actually don’t answer that.”

You didn’t reply. You were too focused on the fact that your fingers were gently playing with her hair and she hadn’t told you to stop. Not that she ever would. Not that you wanted to stop. Not that you weren’t completely and utterly falling apart inside.

She sighed softly, then looked up at you, her voice quieter this time.

“You okay?”

You nodded.

“You sure?” she asked, eyes scanning yours. Less chaotic now. More real. That scary kind of real where you feel seen.

You nodded again.

She hummed. “Okay. Just making sure. ‘Cause like… I know you act like you hate everything but you kinda… don’t fool me anymore.”

You paused.

“…You don’t?”

She smiled. “Nope. You’re soft as hell. You just pretend to be a cactus.”

You rolled your eyes. “Says the human glitter bomb with no sense of self-preservation.”

“Exactly,” she said proudly. “Opposites attract.”

Your stomach flipped.

You were so screwed.

You never meant to fall asleep next to her.

You were tired, yeah. But you were always tired. That wasn’t new.

What was new? That dumb movie marathon she insisted on. The way her blanket somehow became your blanket. The way she kept stealing the popcorn from your lap like it belonged to her. The way her legs ended up tangled with yours at some point.

And the way her head eventually rested against your shoulder like it belonged there.

It started with the usual chaos.

Hanni throwing all the couch cushions on the floor, saying, “This is our fortress now. Nothing can hurt us but bad rom-coms and our unresolved trauma.”

You’d rolled your eyes and said, “So basically everything.”

She gasped. “Speak for yourself. I’m thriving.”

She wasn’t. She’d yawned six times in the last minute and had one sock halfway off. But she was grinning like a kid on a sugar high, and you… didn’t want to ruin it.

So you stayed.

One episode turned into three. Three turned into a movie. You didn’t even like the movie. She picked it because she said the main couple “had our energy.” (You didn’t ask what that meant. You were scared.)

Somewhere between the fake-confession scene and the cliché forehead kiss, Hanni went quiet.

You glanced over.

She was asleep.

Her mouth was slightly open. Her cheek was squished into your arm. Her hand was gripping your hoodie like she’d anchored herself to you in her dreams.

And you?

You forgot how to breathe.

You should’ve moved. Should’ve pulled away. Should’ve done anything other than sit there like your heart wasn’t combusting in your chest.

But her body was warm against yours. Her breathing was steady. Her fingers twitched every now and then, still holding onto you, like she was afraid you’d disappear.

So you stayed.

For a minute.

Then five.

Then an hour.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep next to her.

But you did.

You woke up to something warm pressed against your neck.

Her.

She was wrapped around you like a freaking octopus. One leg across your waist, her arm thrown around your middle, her face practically buried in your hoodie.

You froze.

Your brain, still half-dreaming, whispered something truly unhinged:

marry her.

You tried to move. Gently.

Her grip tightened.

She mumbled something under her breath. You couldn’t catch most of it—just a sleepy murmur, her voice soft and messy from dreams.

But then she said it.

“…don’t leave me…”

Your heart dropped.

You didn’t know if she was dreaming about someone else. Some memory. Some pain you hadn’t seen behind the glitter.

But you stayed.

You let her hold you.

And for once, you didn’t pretend to be annoyed. You didn’t roll your eyes. You didn’t say a word.

You just… let yourself be held.

Later, when the sun started peeking through the curtains, she blinked awake slowly.

“…huh,” she said, voice raspy. “Did I kidnap you in my sleep?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Seems like it.”

She stretched, still tangled in you. “You didn’t even fight back. Suspicious.”

“You were surprisingly strong for someone under five feet tall.”

“Hey!” she gasped. “I’m five-one.”

You smirked. “With heels.”

She groaned and buried her face in your hoodie again, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like “you smell good,” and you almost died.

Died. Dead. Deceased. Buried.

You played it cool. Didn’t say anything.

But your heart was screaming.

A few days later, she asked, super casually, like it was nothing:

“Do you… cuddle everyone like that?”

You blinked. “No.”

She grinned. “Cool. Just checking.”

And walked away.

Like she didn’t just set your soul on fire and leave it there.

You weren’t jealous.

Obviously.

You were just… observing. Casually. Calmly. Like a normal, non-jealous person who definitely wasn’t staring holes into the back of that guy’s head.

He was tall. Too tall. Probably drinks protein shakes and says “bro” unironically. He wore that kind of smug, toothy grin that screamed “I peaked in high school.” And he had the audacity to lean just a little too close to Hanni while she laughed at something he said.

Laughed.

Like, full-on laughing. That laugh you’d heard at 1 a.m. when she was wearing your hoodie and telling you about the time she got stuck in a vending machine. That stupid, bright laugh that made your chest feel like it was melting and exploding at the same time.

And now he got to hear it?

No.

Absolutely not.

It had started as a normal afternoon.

A small campus event. Food trucks. Music. Too many people. Hanni begged you to come with her.

“Come on,” she whined, linking her arm through yours. “I can’t go alone. I’ll die. I’ll combust. I’ll make a scene.”

“You make a scene everywhere.”

“Exactly. Come with me so I don’t get arrested.”

You rolled your eyes but followed her anyway, because saying no to her was like trying to put out a house fire with a juice box.

It was fine. You were fine.

Until he showed up.

You were holding Hanni’s drink while she talked to him—some guy from her music theory class who apparently “loved her energy” and “always noticed her in lectures.” Vomit.

You tried not to listen.

Tried.

But she smiled at him. She tilted her head like she does when she’s being cute without realizing it. She twirled the straw in her drink.

And then he touched her arm.

Nothing big. Just a little casual brush of the fingers. But it lit your entire nervous system on fire.

You didn’t even realize you were glaring until she turned around, catching your expression.

“…You good?” she asked, walking over with that same dumb smile.

You blinked. “Yep. Totally. Love watching you flirt with strangers. Really warms my heart.”

She tilted her head. “That sounded… fake.”

“It was.”

She smirked. “Were you jealous?”

You scoffed. “Of him? Please.”

“Because he’s tall?”

“Because he’s not funny.”

“You didn’t hear the joke.”

“I don’t have to. Your laugh is a lie.”

She gasped, clutching her chest. “How dare you.”

“I dare often.”

She leaned closer, smile turning smug. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

Your heart fell out of your body. It rolled into the parking lot and got hit by a taco truck.

“I’m not jealous,” you lied, voice way too tight.

“Sure you’re not,” she said, stepping even closer. “You just get real mad when I talk to people who aren’t you.”

“…You’re annoying.”

“I know,” she said sweetly. “But I’m your annoying, right?”

You said nothing.

Because if you spoke, you’d confess everything.

Later that night, you were lying on your bed, scrolling through your phone, trying to breathe normally, when your door creaked open.

Hanni peeked in.

“You still mad at me?”

You didn’t look up. “I wasn’t mad.”

She walked in anyway. Flopped down next to you without permission. Rested her chin on your arm.

“You know,” she whispered, “if you were jealous, it’d be kinda cute.”

You turned your head, meeting her eyes.

She looked so smug. But under it—something else. Something softer. Nervous, maybe. Or hopeful.

“I wasn’t jealous,” you said again, quieter this time. “I just… didn’t like him.”

“Why not?”

You hesitated.

Then, with a shrug: “…He’s not me.”

She blinked.

And then��slowly, so slowly—her smile faded into something real.

“You don’t like when I pay attention to other people,” she said quietly. Not a question.

You nodded.

She looked down. Her hand found yours. Played with your fingers like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“…Good,” she whispered.

You looked at her. Really looked.

“Hanni.”

“Yeah?”

“If you’re gonna kiss me one day, don’t do it when you’re being annoying.”

She grinned, teeth and all. “So never, then?”

You laughed. You actually laughed, even though your heart was a firework show in your chest.

“You’re the worst.”

She leaned in. Her nose brushed yours. She didn’t kiss you. But she didn’t pull away, either.

“Say it again,” she whispered.

“…You’re the worst.”

She smiled like you’d just said I love you.

And maybe, in a way, you did.

Hanni was not okay.

She was so not okay, in fact, that she found herself violently mashing bananas into a bowl at 2:17 a.m., wearing pajama pants covered in cartoon ducks and blasting a playlist titled “Songs to cry-dance to but make it cottagecore.”

This was her coping mechanism now. Banana bread.

Because what else do you do when your entire emotional system malfunctions over the way your roommate said your name earlier?

It had happened that evening.

You were both on the floor in the living room—again. The couch was right there, but for some reason, the floor always felt closer. Warmer. More real.

You were tired. She was talkative. The usual.

But then you’d laughed at something—one of her dumb jokes, probably—and said, all soft and casual and sleepy:

“God, I really like you.”

Not in a flirty way. Not even in a joking way.

You just… meant it.

And Hanni felt like her lungs had turned into confetti.

She couldn’t sleep after that.

She tried.

She rolled around in bed. Kicked off the blanket. Pulled it back on. Screamed silently into her pillow. Googled “why does my stomach hurt when I think about my roommate” and got zero helpful results.

So now she was here. At the kitchen counter. At 2AM. Making banana bread like a woman on the verge.

“Stupid feelings,” she muttered, mixing flour way too aggressively. “Stupid laugh. Stupid hands. Stupid hoodie that smells good. Stupid face—”

A voice interrupted her spiral.

“Are you making banana bread at two in the morning?”

She turned.

You were standing in the doorway, hair messy, wrapped in your blanket like a concerned burrito.

Hanni froze. Then tried to play it cool.

“I—uh. No?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Then what’s… that?” You pointed to the bowl. And the flour-covered counter. And the mashed bananas. And the literal banana in her hand.

She looked down.

“…Okay maybe yes.”

You stepped closer, yawning. “Why though?”

She shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

You tilted your head. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Nope.”

You didn’t push.

You just walked over and leaned on the counter beside her, stealing a chocolate chip from the bag and popping it into your mouth.

She stared at you. You stared back.

And then she blurted:

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

The kind that made the air buzz. The kind that made her want to curl into the bowl of batter and disappear.

“…Cool,” you said softly.

She blinked. “Cool?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Cool.”

Then, casually—like you were talking about the weather:

“I’ve been in love with you for like two weeks.”

She dropped the whisk.

“…What.”

You grinned.

“I was waiting for you to catch up.”

Hanni stared. Absolutely malfunctioning.

“I made banana bread to cope with my crush on you. Do you even understand how unhinged that is?”

“I find it endearing.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You’re worse.”

You stepped closer. Her heart stopped.

You reached for the batter on her cheek and wiped it with your thumb, then sucked it off your finger like it was nothing.

Hanni made a noise that wasn’t human.

“…I’m gonna pass out.”

“Please don’t. You still have to bake the bread.”

The bread went in the oven. You sat on the counter. She stood in front of you, hands on your knees, still looking at you like she couldn’t believe you were real.

“Say it again,” she whispered.

“What?”

“That you like me.”

You smiled, leaning forward until your forehead rested against hers.

“I like you. I really, really like you.”

She smiled so hard it hurt. Then said:

“Cool. Cool cool cool. Um. Can I kiss you or should I go cry in the pantry first?”

You kissed her.

Gently. Softly. Like a promise.

Like something you’d both been waiting for.

And when you pulled back, she whispered:

“This is better than banana bread.”

There was no label.

No “we’re dating.” No “this is a relationship now.” No dramatic Instagram post with matching captions and heart emojis.

Just the memory of Hanni kissing you in a kitchen that smelled like bananas and chaos. Just the way her hand had lingered on yours the next morning when she passed you your coffee like it wasn’t the most intimate thing in the universe. Just the quiet, breathless way you both smiled at nothing sometimes, like there was a secret only your hearts knew how to tell.

So no. Not official.

But also? So obvious it was embarrassing.

The first person to call you out was your upstairs neighbor, Jaemin, who casually leaned over the balcony while you were unlocking your door one afternoon and said:

“So… you and sparkles, huh?”

You blinked. “Who?”

He tilted his head toward your apartment. “Your glitter gremlin roommate who sings ‘Toxic’ at 3 a.m. and looks at you like you invented sunlight?”

You stared. “We’re… just roommates.”

He snorted. “Babe, she was waiting for you outside last night like a golden retriever who lost her owner in Target. She hugged you for two full minutes. I timed it.”

You said nothing. Just went inside and collapsed on the couch, face down.

“Don’t mind me,” Hanni chirped from the kitchen, “just baking cookies for my favorite person.”

You peeked up. “Me?”

“Do you live here?”

“…Yeah?”

“Then duh.”

You melted.

You both tried to keep things lowkey. You really did.

But lowkey doesn’t work when you’re both emotionally unhinged and in denial.

Exhibit A: You walked across campus together. Hanni insisted on not holding hands.

Her solution? Hooking her pinky with yours and saying, “It’s not holding hands if it’s only one finger.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s still… touching.”

“Yeah but like, emotionally distant touching.”

“It’s literally the opposite of that.”

She leaned closer and whispered, “Just let me have this. I need it to live.”

You didn’t argue. You just blushed like a loser.

Exhibit B: Group hangout. Game night. Hanni sat on the floor next to you. Not in her own space. Not even in your space. She sat onyou.

Lap. Claimed. Possessed.

When someone joked, “Are you two… a thing now?”

Hanni didn’t even blink. “No.”

Then fed you a marshmallow like you were in a K-drama and she was trying to ruin your emotional stability.

Your friend Jisung straight-up said, “You two make me want to scream into a pillow.”

You and Hanni made direct eye contact.

Then she said, too softly:

“Do you want to be a thing?”

You blinked.

In front of everyone?

In front of GOD?

“I—I mean… do you want to?”

“I wouldn’t be feeding you marshmallows if I didn’t, genius.”

Everyone screamed. You screamed internally.

Back home, you both collapsed into bed, breathless and pink-faced from too much attention.

“I think we suck at being subtle,” Hanni mumbled, face buried in your hoodie.

You were quiet for a second. Then said:

“Do we want to be subtle?”

She looked up.

Her eyes were tired but glowing. Warm like candlelight. Soft in a way that made your chest ache.

“…No,” she whispered.

“Me neither.”

And then you kissed her.

Not like the kitchen kiss. Not like a joke. Not like an accident.

This time it was real. Long. Certain. A little messy and full of everything you hadn’t said out loud yet.

She smiled against your mouth. You pulled her closer.

Everything outside the room fell away.

Later, in the dark, she whispered into your neck:

“I don’t care if the whole world knows.”

You ran your fingers through her hair. “Yeah?”

“I’d scream it from the roof if I didn’t think I’d fall off and die.”

You laughed, breath catching in your throat.

“I’d catch you.”

She paused.

Then, quietly:

“I know.”

all started with a compliment.

A simple, harmless, not-even-that-deep compliment.

You were at a campus café—just minding your own business, waiting for your drink, humming under your breath. Hair still damp from your morning shower, hoodie three sizes too big (read: Hanni’s), face peaceful for once because, miraculously, your to-do list was empty.

And then someone leaned over the counter and said:

“Sorry, not to be weird, but… you have a really pretty smile.”

You blinked.

He was cute. Friendly. One of those art student energy types—paint on his hands, camera around his neck, nose piercing that somehow worked.

You gave a small, polite laugh. “Thanks.”

That’s it.

That’s all you said.

But across the café, sitting at a corner table with her laptop open and absolutely not working on her assignment, Hanni’s entire soul combusted.*

She didn’t say anything at first. She just… stared.

Eyes wide. Jaw slack. Eyebrow twitching like a bad Wi-Fi signal.

The guy said something else. You smiled again. Tilted your head. Tucked your hair behind your ear.

And Hanni—actual glitter goblin of your heart—felt something primal and ancient rise up inside her.

She closed the laptop. Hard.

Walked over like she was possessed.

Plopped down right next to you, arm casually thrown over the back of your chair, voice so sugary it could’ve given everyone diabetes.

“Hey, baby. Miss me?”

You choked on your drink. The guy blinked. Hanni? She was smiling. Sweet. Evil. Terrifying.

You turned slowly. “…Hi.”

She leaned in closer, like the universe hadn’t already started glitching, and pressed a kiss—quick, but way too loaded—to your cheek.

The guy blinked again.

“Oh,” he said.

Hanni turned to him, still smiling like a shark in lip gloss. “Hi. I’m her girlfriend. We’re in love. It’s a whole thing.”

You just stared at her, absolutely malfunctioning.

The guy got the message. He nodded—awkward, polite—and backed off with a quick “My bad, have a good day,” before disappearing into the void like a sensible man.

The moment he was gone, you turned to her, wide-eyed.

“…What was that?”

Hanni didn’t even flinch. “Me being normal and healthy.”

“You just staged a romantic ambush in a public café.”

“I saved you from a man with a nose ring and too much eye contact.”

“He complimented my smile.”

“I know! Rude!”

You blinked. Then slowly, slowly, a grin tugged at your lips.

“…Are you jealous?”

Hanni scoffed. “No.”

You tilted your head.

She squirmed.

“Okay maybe a little.”

“A little?”

“I was chill about it!”

“You fake-proposed to me with your vibe.”

Hanni huffed, cheeks flushing, lips pouting just slightly.

“…You’re mine.”

Your breath caught.

“Yeah?” you said softly.

She looked up at you then—eyes big and shiny and full of way too much truth.

“…Yeah,” she whispered.

Later, you were back at the apartment, curled into the couch, a blanket around both of you, movie playing in the background but long forgotten.

She was curled up beside you, head on your chest, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your stomach.

You ran your hand through her hair and said, teasing:

“I didn’t know you got jealous.”

She groaned into your hoodie. “I didn’t know I had feelings until you showed up like a walking serotonin shot.”

You chuckled, heart aching in the best way.

“Well… I like when you get a little possessive.”

She sat up. “Really?”

You shrugged. “It’s kinda hot.”

She grinned, proud now. “I knew it.”

You pulled her back into your arms.

“Just don’t scare every barista we meet, okay?”

“No promises.”

And then, in the quiet between jokes and kisses and skin-on-skin stillness, she whispered:

“I’ve never wanted something to last this bad.”

You held her tighter.

“Then stay. That’s all you have to do.”

She nodded against your chest.

And she stayed.

It was a dumb moment.

Nothing big. Nothing dramatic.

You were brushing your teeth. Hanni was sitting on the bathroom counter, legs swinging, eating cereal out of a mug, watching you like you were the most entertaining movie she’d ever seen.

You looked up. Met her eyes through the mirror.

Foam in your mouth. Hoodie too big. Hair messy. Sleep still in your bones.

She grinned.

“You’re so cute. I love you.”

It slipped.

Just like that.

No warning. No dramatic music. No soft background sunset.

She said it like it was nothing.

And then she froze.

Spoon halfway to her mouth. Eyes going wide. Smile dropping.

You turned slowly, toothbrush still in your mouth.

“What?”

She blinked. Coughed. Laughed way too loud. “HA. HAHA. NO I MEAN LIKE. FRIEND love. Ha ha. Like… platonic… roommate love… ha…haha…”

You raised a brow, slowly spitting into the sink, the most romantic way to handle a confession.

“Right.”

“Right!! So anyway, do you want pancakes later?”

You didn’t answer. Just stared at her with the softest, most dangerous smile.

“…You love me.”

She physically shrank. “I said it by accident!”

“But you said it.”

“You were cute!! You were foamy and grumpy and—UHH—I PANICKED.”

“You love me.”

She groaned and covered her face. “I’m going to jump into the garbage disposal now.”

You laughed, turning off the faucet and walking up to her.

She peeked through her fingers. “Please don’t say it back out of pity.”

“I’m not.”

“…You’re not what?”

You smiled.

“I’m not saying it back out of pity. I’m saying it because I’ve been trying not to say it for weeks.”

Her heart broke. Healed. Then exploded.

She let out a choked noise. “Wait. You do?”

You nodded.

“I love you, Hanni.”

She dropped the cereal. Didn’t even care.

Launched herself at you like a sleep-deprived kitten in love.

And you caught her.

Because of course you did.

You didn’t mean to fight.

It started with something dumb.

Laundry. Schedules. Dishes left in the sink.

You were tired. She was distracted. There were things neither of you were saying and it all just… cracked.

“You said you’d clean today,” you said, too sharp.

“I was busy,” she snapped.

“You were watching five hours of dance clips on TikTok.”

“It was RESEARCH.”

You laughed, bitter. “You don’t take anything seriously.”

She flinched. “Excuse me?”

You rubbed your temples. “I’m just saying—sometimes it feels like I’m the only one holding us together.”

She stared at you like you’d slapped her.

“…You don’t think I care?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Silence.

The kind that hurt.

She walked to the door. Paused.

“…I love you, you know.”

You swallowed. “Yeah. I know.”

She left.

The apartment was too quiet without her.

Your hoodie still smelled like her. Her socks were in the corner. A spoon was on the counter from the cereal she didn’t finish.

You sat on the couch. Didn’t cry. But your chest ached.

And somewhere across campus, Hanni sat on a bench in front of the art building, hugging her knees to her chest, phone in her hand, heart in her throat.

She wasn’t good at fights. She was worse at silence.

So she came back.

You heard the door click. Turned your head slowly.

She was in the doorway, soaked in rain, looking like something fragile and shining.

“I suck at this,” she said softly.

You stood up. Quiet. Calm.

“I know.”

She walked in, step by step.

“I didn’t mean what I said. I just… I freak out when I feel like I’m not enough for you.”

Your eyes burned. “I never said you weren’t.”

“But I heard it anyway,” she whispered.

You walked over. Reached for her hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.”

Silence again—but the good kind this time.

Then, she reached for your face, cupped your jaw, and whispered:

“Please don’t give up on me.”

You pressed your forehead to hers.

“Never.”

And then you kissed.

Not soft. Not slow.

But messy, desperate, tear-stained. The kind that says I choose you even when it’s hard.

The kind that says stay.

You fell asleep that night wrapped around each other, still damp from the rain, her head on your chest, your hand on her back.

And just before drifting off, she whispered:

“You’re still annoying, though.”

You smiled.

“So are you.”

Hanni wasn’t supposed to be gone for long. Just three days. A family thing. Simple. Routine. No big deal.

At least, that’s what you told yourself when you waved goodbye at the bus stop.

She’d kissed your cheek, tugged your sleeve one last time, and said:

“Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone, okay?”

You smiled, tried to act normal, and replied:

“Only if you text me first.”

She laughed. Walked backward a few steps. Still facing you.

“I’ll miss you.”

You swallowed. Forced a smirk.

“You better.”

She winked. And then she was gone.

The first night was… fine. You made tea. Watched a dumb show. Wore her hoodie even though yours was literally right there.

The silence felt a little weird, but whatever. You liked quiet.

Right?

The second night hit harder.

You made two mugs out of habit. You kept turning to say something—and realizing no one was there. You caught yourself laughing at a meme and instinctively opening her contact before freezing mid-thumb and locking your phone again.

Her bed was made. Empty. Too still.

The apartment didn’t feel like home without her humming in the kitchen or tripping over her shoes or narrating her inner monologue like a cartoon sidekick.

You missed her.

In the loud kind of way. The kind that presses behind your ribs and makes your hands fidget and your breath stick in your throat.

She sent you a voice note that night.

“Okay, I lied. I miss you more than I should after one day. I saw someone wearing a hoodie like yours and almost tackled them.”

“Also I had a dream you turned into a cat and I cried because you wouldn’t let me hug you. What does that mean.”

You played it twice. Then again. Just to hear her voice.

You sent her back a picture of your empty hand.

“This is where yours should be. Come home.”

She replied with five crying emojis, the clown emoji, and

“I’M MAKING IT WORSE STOP.”

The third day, you gave in.

You lay on her bed, head on her pillow, wearing her sweater like it was armor. It still smelled like her—strawberry shampoo and mint gum and whatever soft thing made her feel like yours.

You sent her a video. Just a pan of her side of the room.

Caption:

“This room is too quiet without you. It misses its chaos.”

She responded instantly.

“You’re gonna make me cry in front of my cousin and I don’t even LIKE her that much.”

Then:

“Also I just hugged my blanket and pretended it was you. I think I’m losing it.”

That night, you didn’t FaceTime. You both laid in your separate beds, earphones in, on a call with no video, barely talking.

Just… breathing together.

Your voice low.

“You still there?”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I don’t want to hang up.”

“Same.”

A pause.

Then—

“Hey… Can I say something dumb?”

“Always.”

“…I miss your heartbeat.”

You closed your eyes.

“Then hurry home. It’s still beating for you.”

Silence. Soft.

Then you heard it.

A breath. A tiny laugh. A sniff.

“You’re not allowed to say stuff like that when I’m far away. It hurts.”

You smiled into your pillow.

“Then come back and make it stop.”

Neither of you said “I love you” that night.

But the call stayed connected until the morning light crept through your window. Until the silence didn’t feel lonely anymore—just shared.

You hadn’t been waiting for a message from Hanni saying she’d arrived.

She didn’t send one.

No “I’m home.”

No “Open the door.”

Nothing at all.

But then, at exactly 6:03 p.m., in the middle of a boring YouTube ad, the door creaked open.

And there she was.

“Hey.”

You were on the floor, back against the couch, wearing her hoodie, snacking on stale chips you didn’t even like…

All the exhaustion in your body vanished in a single moment.

You looked up.

And smiled.

“You’re back.”

She didn’t run to you.

She didn’t cry.

She just stood there, quiet and soft.

Then stepped inside.

The space between you felt like the whole world shrinking down to something warm and familiar.

She shrugged off her jacket, and her eyes found yours.

“I missed this,” she whispered.

You reached out, fingers trembling, and took her hand.

“Me too.”

No words needed after that.

You just held each other.

And for the first time in a long time, everything was exactly right.

The End.

#ran ★#newjeans x reader #hanni x reader #hanni pham x reader #hanni imagines

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dontmakemebabyblue · 30 days ago

Text

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑲𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒀𝒐𝒖

𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝟑 | 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

also this is the song I was listening to while writing bty :)

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Tw: this is defiantly a slow burn, really bad grammar, mild age gap (reader is 19-20ish Ghost is 30ish) kidnapping/abduction, psychological trauma? (if i miss anything let me know! I'm still new to this🥲 lol)

The road unspooled ahead of you like a ribbon of gray, lined with tall trees that blurred past in silent procession. Somewhere along the way, the clouds broke apart, revealing slivers of pale blue sky. You watch it all through the window, forehead resting against the glass, the engine’s low hum like a heartbeat under your feet.

You’d been driving for hours.

Ghost didn’t say much. He never did. But he hadn’t turned the radio on either, and that silence not strategic, not defensive felt different. Like something unsaid was taking up all the space between you.

You shift in your seat, stretching your sore legs. “You always this quiet, or is it just around me?”

He doesn't look over. “Noise gives people comfort. Comfort makes people sloppy.”

You let out a breath. “That supposed to be a yes?”

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “You're starting to sound like you not understand this little arrangement.”

You turn your head toward him, searching his expression even though most of it is hidden. “Yeah, well. You didn’t exactly come with a user manual.”

That got the faintest twitch of his eyes. Maybe a smirk. Maybe nothing. But it was something new.

Eventually, he pulls off the highway, navigating down a side road with the ease of someone who’s mapped it out a thousand times before. The sedan slows as you approach a cabin nestled in the woods old, but sturdy. Like it had been waiting for a moment just like this.

Ghost parks, kills the engine, and turns to you.

“We’re staying here a few days. Off-grid. No signals, no eyes.”

You nod slowly, stepping out of the vehicle. The air is different here still, and thick with pine and damp earth. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been wound until the quiet swallowed you.

Inside, the cabin is sparse but functional: one bedroom, a couch, and a fireplace that looked like it hadn’t been used in years. There’s no electricity, only lanterns and an old cast-iron stove.

Ghost moves with efficiency checking locks, windows, sightlines. Always the soldier. You find yourself watching him again. Not with suspicion this time. With curiosity. Maybe even… concern.

“You ever take a break?” you ask, looking around the room, trying to feign indifference.

“Breaks get people killed.”

You fold your arms. “So that’s a no, then.”

He pauses at the window. “We’ve got time. I suggest you sleep.”

You don't answer. Instead, you light one of the lanterns and settle near the fireplace. Your bones ache from sitting too long, your mind too loud for sleep. Ghost must have picked up on your mood, because he makes another pass around the cabin before he eventually crosses the room and sits in the armchair opposite you.

For a while, neither of you speak.

Then, softly, you ask, “Have you ever lost someone on a job?”

The air shifts. Like you’d stepped somewhere you weren’t supposed to.

But he doesn’t look away.

“Yes.”

You wait. Not pushing. Hoping the quiet will draw it out.

He speaks again, voice low. “Three years ago. Extraction went bad.”

You swallow the weight of that, sitting between you. “I’m sorry.”

“Doesn’t change anything.”

“No. But it matters.”

His dark eyes meet yours across the space.

And more silence. And god, was it driving you mad. You wanted him to talk about something, anything. These days and days on long stretches of solitary highway had numbed your brain. It was starting to feel like you were floating just outside your body.

You stand, brushing your hands on your jeans. “I’ll take the couch.”

Ghost stands too. “Bed’s yours. I’ll keep watch.”

You hesitate. “You don’t have to do that. I mean… you haven’t slept either.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t sleep well in places like this.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And where do you sleep well?”

He looks at you for a long moment.

“Why aren’t you more scared?”

You blink. “What?”

“You should be. After everything. Most people would be curled up in a corner right now.”

You sit back down on the edge of the couch. “Maybe I’m too angry to be scared.”

But honestly, you knew that was just a half-truth. Anger didn’t even begin to cover it. You had been choking on the extent of your emotions since you found out your father had flipped. And even though you felt all kinds of numb now, they were still simmering under all the shock.

“That won’t last.”

You look up at him. “Then I guess I’ll just have to stay angry.”

There’s something in his gaze then. A shift. Not soft Ghost didn’t do soft but something close to recognition.

“You’re not your father,” he says.

It’s the first time either of you had said it out loud.

You swallow. “I know.”

“You don’t have to become him, either.”

You nod slowly. “I’m trying not to.”

Ghost steps away then, toward the window. But before he turns completely, he says, “Get some rest. I’ll be here.”

Not outside. Not on watch. Not guarding the perimeter.

Just: I’ll be here.

You didn’t realize how much you needed to hear that until it was already said.

Later, when you lie in the bed staring up at the dark ceiling, you can hear him pacing the floor outside the room steady and controlled. And in the spaces between his footsteps, you feel something unfamiliar unfurl in your chest.

Not fear.

Not adrenaline.

Something quieter. Warmer.

Trust.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The dream comes quietly, like a whisper through the trees.

You are running not from something, but toward something. A door. A face. A voice just out of reach. And then the dream fractures, replaced by a low creak. Something subtle. Real.

You sit up, heart thudding. The cabin is still, shadows soft and long from the guttering lantern in the other room. You listen the kind of listening that only comes when the world feels too still. Ghost’s pacing has stopped.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet touching cool wooden floorboards, and pad toward the doorway.

He’s standing there, back to you, still as stone. One hand braced against the wall near the window, the other hanging loose by his side. You don’t speak at first. Just watch. His breath is even, but his shoulders are tense not the tension of alertness. Something else. Like he’s holding something back. Or in.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask, voice low.

He doesn’t turn.

“Didn’t try.”

You cross the room slowly, careful not to break the quiet more than you have to. “You always keep watch like this?”

“This isn’t watch.” he says.

You stop a few feet behind him. "what is it then."

"Memory." he breathes.

“Memory of what?”

His silence drags out so long you think he isn’t going to answer. Then:

“My first year deployed. Nights like this, the air gets cold fast. You learn to listen for things… not see them. I had a spotter. Young. Joked too much. Died with a smile still on his face.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Not really. You weren’t trained for grief like that the kind that never lets go, that sits inside a person like a second heartbeat.

So you step closer.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly.

Ghost nods once, but it feels more like acknowledgment than acceptance. He finally looks over his shoulder at you, and though the mask is gone you can only see the faint outline of his jaw backlit from the window, but you can still see his eyes and they look raw with something too human to name.

“You ever think about what it does to you?” you ask. “Carrying all of it?”

He considers that. “Not until I look at someone who isn’t.”

You tilt your head. “Is that what I am to you? A clean slate?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

“No,” he says finally. “You’re a fractured. But not broken.”

It lands in you like a stone dropped in water.

You steep up to the window next to him. Close, but not touching. Not yet.

“I think I’m more broken than I look,” you breathe.

“Maybe....But that doesn't have to control you.”

You look over at him, catching the gleam of his eyes in the dark. “Then what does?”

His answer is simple. Honest.

“What you do next.”

You exhale. Maybe a little shakily.

“I don’t know what comes next,” you admit.

His gaze doesn’t waver. “I do.”

And there it is again that quiet promise. Not protection. Not orders. Something harder to name.

Partnership.

You stand there for a long while, side by side, watching the trees shift in the wind. At some point, your shoulder brushes his. A small thing. Barely contact.

He doesn’t pull away.

“Go back to bed,” he says softly.

You look at him, tired but no longer haunted. “Only if you do.”

Another long silence. Then he nods once.

Together, without a word more, you return to the bedroom. He sinks into one of the overstuffed chairs, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

No arguments. No insistence on watch.

Just presence.

You lie back, eyes fixed on the ceiling again but it feels different now. Not hollow. Not endless.

His breathing steadies across the room, and yours begins to match.

Eventually, sleep comes not as an escape, but as a surrender. Not to fear.

But to safety.

And somewhere, in the fragile space between consciousness and dreams, you hear him say it.

Almost too quiet to be real.

“You’re not alone.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

tag list: @your-internet-tenshi @full-cover32bitch let me know if you want to be added!🫶

#cod #cod x reader #ghost call of duty #ghost cod #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #cod fanfic #ghost x you #simon riley #simon riley x reader fluff #simon x f!reader #cod x f!reader #ghost x f!reader

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lingyunxi · 11 months ago

Text

Self-use Sims 3 CC Tutorials List

Here is a list of tutorials from which I learn to convert/create sims 3 cc in a few months (and as a poor English speaker). I think it might help someone who also wants to try making things for sims 3 but doesn't know where to start, though it's been 15 years from the game release and even Inzoi is coming hahah.

The list covers objects, clothes, hairs and eyes. I know there're lots of tutorials not listed here, that's because I haven't tried them in my projects by hand. But The list will be updated with new things I learn. Most tutorials are in English. Thanks to all these creators for sharing their precious knowledge!

Sorry for the miserable format, cuz I wrote them in Patreon and paste here. You can also read it there, free of course.

Where I find tutorials

sims 3 tutorial hub

ts3 creators cave and its discord

Mod the sims tutorial wiki and the forum

pis3update tutorials tag

General

CC basic concepts by nightosphere (for clothes, most knowledge is shared with objects)

Tools

TSRW guide by apple (for objects, most knowledge is shared with clothes)

Blender

shortcut by Blender Guru

beginner tutorial for version 2.5, 2.8, 3.0, 4.0

3.5入门教程 (youtube / bilibili)

设置切换语言快捷�� change language shortcut settings

图片取色器网站

Mesh ToolKit with Seam Fixer for all ages

Topaz gigapixel AI guide / higher quality texture

Texture

Nicer bake / bake in blender 2.78

Bake in blender 2.93

Make normal map

small size blank texture

Reasons for black blocks on baked image

Adjust texture color without losing quality

Object

clone obejcts with S3OC

4t3

Functional Objects

Functional bed

TSRW setting

Combining Textures for Objects with Multiple Textures

Add normal map to objects

Introduction to slot categories

Add slots in TSRW

Edit in-door shadow or occluders in TSRW / Talks about 3 kinds of in-game shadow by Pocci

Clothes

4t3 by nightosphere

Reduce polycount / fix seams, holes, shadows or normals

Bone reference rule

Avoid milkshape workflow / adjust bone assignment and morphs in blender

Manually fix bone in blender

Convert between ages/body meshes

TSRW check list

Fix long clothes clip with body

Fix holes on morphs (easier in blender)

Extrude collars

Create texture in PS

Avoid TSRW workflow / CTU tutorial

Hairs

Avoid milkshape and TSRW workflow / delete backfaces / handmade morphs / DABOOBS guide

Keys pointing to in-game blank textures to save file size (for DABOOBS not TSRW)

Reduce polycount

4t3

Fix weird seam lines on hairs from s4s

Fix pigtail issue

Eyes

Convert contacts to default eyes

#sims 3 #the sims 3 #tutorial #sims 3 tutorial

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splickedylit · 5 months ago

Link

DRAMA >8U I'm late but in my defense I was sick and had to pile in a bunch of illustration work at the last second today before posting. QoQ/ I do it for you audience, the show must go on lol

Chapters: 11/17 Rating: Mature Relationships: Gamzee Makara & Karkat Vantas, Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas, Minor or Background Relationship(s) Characters: Karkat Vantas, Gamzee Makara, Lord English (Homestuck), Doc Scratch (Homestuck), Homestuck Ensemble, Calliope (Homestuck), The Felt (Homestuck), It’s really a ‘everybody is around doing things’ fic I genuinely don’t know how to tag this Additional Tags: Winter Soldier Pastiche, with everything that entails so read carefully!, Humanstuck, Urban Fantasy, Home-Brew Magic System Shit Don’t @ Me, Time Shenanigans, Karkat Vantas Makes Bad Decisions This Is A Forewarning, Polyamory Negotiations, Hurt/Comfort, Lord English’s Fun-Time Brainwashing Time-Travel Torture Gang, Aftermath Of…… Everything….., Past Torture(physical/psychological/spiritual/emotional–largely inexplicit but not entirely), Past Brainwashing, Possession, implied/referenced past rape/non-con, (sexually not described in detail and more explicity nonsexual Cal-flavored intimacy/tenderness), God Finds It Funny To Hurt You But Also Won’t Let You Die, Let’s be clear: plotty gamzee whump with a, Happy Ending

Chapter 11: Where Is She

“I know you’re here,” Rose says to the air, and Jade sniffs and growls, a noise that’s not human at all. Feferi’s teeth look too sharp when she bares them, and a drip of inky blackness escapes the corner of her mouth. “Come out and face us. Unless, of course, you’re frightened of a few petty humans.”

An exorcism of sorts happens exactly as planned and goes extremely smoothly. Are we departing from the Winter Soldier part of the pastiche a little. Maybe. Don’t @ me. Happy Wednesday. :o)

#KVvTEG #Karkat Vantas #Gamzee Makara #Splickedydoodles #Splickedydrabbles #Rose Lalonde #Jade Harley #Feferi Peixes #WITCH COVEN WITCH COVEN WITCH COVEN.#I did several illustrations manually shifting around color afterimages of things to make a glitchy effect #and then found out that my drawing program has a chromatic aberration function that just does it for me #which is great because I like it as a compromise between my still images and Lord English's eyestrainy color-flashing thing from canon lol #and also. Because I think it looks cool as hell lol #anyway CHAPTER. Time for me to eat and go back to bed

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zieisonline · 4 months ago

Note

Domt stop there keep going more details and all about will

I fear we have opened the floodgates with my constant Willy ramblings 🫣 but I will happily continue talking about that man until no one else is listening. 🥰

We all know William is a stylish guy.

He finds intense satisfaction in putting together a perfect outfit, all the way down to the minute details of what socks to wear.

But occasionally he becomes bored of the limitations of men’s fashion.

Which is why you have granted him full access to your closet whenever he so pleases.

It’s nice when he gets in these moods, an air of determination surrounds him as he busies himself around your shared bedroom, searching for the perfect garment to showcase your curves.

You feel cared for and adored as he takes you by the shoulders, steering you in the middle of the room where the lighting is best, gently placing fabric against your skin, humming to himself as he considers the perfect color combination for your complexion.

It’s easy to get lost in the moments, letting any stress you may have been feeling throughout the day melt away as your boyfriend uses you as his own personal doll, helping you strip down to just your underwear so he can start from a blank slate.

There is a casual dominance about the way he orders you to lift your arms so that he can slip one of the dresses he picked out down and around you. The feeling of him zipping up the back of the dress grounds you to the floor, letting him worry about your appearance so you don’t have to. Once you let your mind go free there is no missing the way your eyes shift, unfocused and glassed over.

A gentle cloud of warmth surrounds your head as Will manually moves your limbs with his hands, helping you into your tights and gently pushing you down to sit on the bed so that he can secure your shoes to your feet.

He’s also complimenting you the entire time, filling your brain with praises, even if you are too far gone to register them all, your mind stuck in that deep space where you have given up all control to him, unable to even think for yourself anymore.

“Your hips look amazing in this dress.”

“Gold really brings out the color of your eyes.”

“You are the most beautiful girl in the entire world.”

He isn’t sure if you are fully listening, but that won’t stop him from letting all of the praises fall from his lips, showering you with the love in his heart.

Once he is satisfied and has had his fun playing in your closet, dressing you up to his standards, he would tug you in front of the full length mirror, taking a stance just behind you.

He would really ramp up the compliments then, even going as far as to call you a goddess among men, so beautiful he wasn’t sure how he could function around you.

If your gaze was still hazy, he would bring back some of his natural dominance to the situation, reaching around and forcing your chin in the direction of the mirror.

“Look at how beautiful you are.” He would wait until he confirmed your eyes locked into your reflection.

“Tell me you’re beautiful.” He would demand, but not too harshly, just wanting to make sure it clicked inside of you just how gorgeous you truly were.

He wouldn’t be satisfied until you were a blushing, smiley mess. Giggling in his grasp, attempting to hide yourself in his chest.

Sometimes he would be just as eager to remove the clothing as he was to put it on, but other times he reveled in the act of showing you off, taking you in public and letting the world see the perfect outfit he selected for you, his heart filling with pride at every glance and every compliment you would receive, secure in the fact that you were his alone.

#zie answers asks #William nylander #william nylander fluff #william nylander x reader #willy styles #toronto maple leafs #wn88 #willy nylander

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clementineofmine · 5 months ago

Text

What if...

Five, in a last fit of rage and defiance, summons the energy to attack Reginald in the Oblivion machine. With only one arm, dizzy from lack of blood and loss of his marigold, Five's desperate attack is swatted away like a flea. When Allison pleads with Reginald for clemency, their father makes the split second decision to throw Allison into the furnace instead of the nearly depleted Five. The addition of her marigold gives the doomsday machine enough power to achieve its purpose.

Five's last vision before he fades into oblivion is the image of his siblings dying in front of him, once again helpless to save them.

Sometimes later, to Five's surprise and horror, he wakes up. He is in a hospital bed, tended by competent but cold nursing staff that call him "Mr. Hargeeeves" politely and never answer any questions. Late at night, he pulls at his powers, but with only one remaining hand nothing happens. Eventually, he leaves the hospital, simply walking out in the middle of the day, and finds himself in the midst of a city that is Not Quite like the one he remembers.

He wanders the strange City, heading as best he remembers towards the Academy. It's not there. A nondescript housing block sits in its place. Griddys is gone too, as is every recognizable place from the dusty memories of Five's childhood. His entire life is erased, except for the name Hargreeves, which he finds engraved in stone on every municipal building and etched in metal and glass on many of the corporate ones.

Five finds guards with Hargeeeves stitched on their uniform lapels are everywhere in the city, but each of them ignores Five, silently watching as he commits petty theft, then a series of increasingly public crimes and antics. There is one, and only one, exception to their imposed silence. Time after time, Five tries to get close to Reginald, first demanding, then bargaining, then sneaking, then assaulting his way into the ominous tall guilding bearing his father's name. None of these tactics work. Five is rebuffed again and again by the well trained guards who politely but firmly send him away.

Alone, truly alone, Five eventually leaves the City. He finds a small hunting cabin with worn but comfortable furnishings covered in a thick layer of dust. Life is harder out here, but Five isn't so far removed from his survival days, and the skills come back quickly. Over time, he sees Reginald's goons less often, and eventually stops seeing them at all.

One winter day, Five begins doing the math again, the stiff fingers of his one remaining hand hesitantly, reluctantly, then angrily scratching wobbly notes on random scraps of paper. These scraps grow and multiply over years until the creaky table, then most of the cabin itself, is filled with his writings. These tombs of equations, scratched out in increasingly confident strokes over decades, will eventually be catalogued and preserved by his followers as history, but for now, they are simply the proof of a solitary one-armed man accepting his destiny.

Eventually, Five wanders away from his self-imposed isolation, seeking out those who will serve his purpose - academics and engineers and malcontents and even the whack doodle conspiracy theorists - those are the most important ones actually, the ones who can almost see where the lines between realities blur, those threads of space time that are now hidden from Five. With his followers, Five eventually, painfully, finds those lines again and crack them open, using manual technology that recreates the spatial-temporal ripping that used to come as naturally as breathing to Five. Digital would be easier, he knows, but he purposefully chooses technology that can't be tracked, can't be traced by Reginald.

Five is once again turning the corner towards old age when they finally leave this world he never called home and set up shop in a pleasant and non-descript corner of reality. By this point, and by design, his team functions without him, creating a bureaucracy that quickly takes on a life of its own, living and breathing, but most importantly, finally freeing up Five to pursue his own interests.

He barely takes notice when they place the shiny new plaque on his desk. He never turns it around, never mentions it, perhaps because he already knows what it reads: Temps Commission, followed by Five Hargeeeves, Founder.

#i had an idea yall #and this wasnt even the idea but i realized the idea needs a backstory #also i always wanted to fill in the gap of commission five #i mean there had to be a reason five created the thing he hated second most of all #because he hated reginald even worse #and #spoiler alert #he didnt do it out of spite....well not entirely....were gonna get to the other reason #but i wanted to throw this idea out into the world #five hargreeves #tua #the umbrella academy #tua s3 #temps commission #reginald hargreeves #i wrote it #to be continued....

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nickeverdeen · 6 months ago

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Blanket and Tea | Kate Bishop x fem!reader

Pairings: Kate x reader (romantic)

Type of fic: Comfort, Fluff

Warnings: Sickness

Summary: Working from home today you decide to get it over with while Kate is putting together a furniture, but when Kate notices somethin off about you she doesn’t let it get worse.

Ps: This is a bit shorter as I only came up with this in a bus so spare me, thank you

———————

The soft creak of a power drill and the occasional thud of wood echoed through the apartment, pulling you from your slumber. Rubbing your eyes, you shuffled out of the bedroom, the oversized hoodie you’d slept in hanging loosely over your frame.

The sight that greeted you in the living room made you smile. Kate Bishop, already dressed in her usual mix of casual and functional clothes, was crouched on the floor, wrestling with pieces of a half-assembled closet. A manual lay open on the floor nearby, though it seemed mostly ignored.

“Good morning,” you said, voice still laced with sleep as you padded over to her.

Kate glanced up, her face lighting up as she saw you. “Morning, sleepyhead.” She sat back on her heels, gesturing to the half-built furniture. “I’m almost done.”

“Need help?” you offered, kneeling beside her.

Kate shook her head. “Nah, I’ve got it. You should get yourself some breakfast.”

You arched an eyebrow but didn’t argue, standing back up. “Alright, if you say so.”

As you wandered into the kitchen, you could hear Kate muttering to herself about screws and dowels. You grabbed some toast and tea, sitting down at the small dining table where you could still see her.

“So, what inspired you to start this so early?” you teased, taking a bite of your toast.

Kate shrugged, not looking up from her work. “The box has been staring at me for a week. It was time to put it out of its misery.”

You laughed, sipping your tea as you kept up the light banter. By the time you finished breakfast, Kate was tightening the last screws. You grabbed your work files—notes on a case you’d been reviewing for your job as a private investigator—and began flipping through them, occasionally throwing in a comment to keep the conversation going.

As the morning went on, you started to feel a bit off. Your head was heavy, and your body ached faintly. Deciding a blanket and tea might help, you excused yourself.

“Everything okay?” Kate asked, immediately alert.

“Yeah, just grabbing a blanket and some more tea,” you reassured her with a small smile.

Kate’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she nodded, setting the closet into a stable position before standing up. ��You sure?”

“I’m fine, promise,” you said, brushing it off.

She hesitated for a moment before letting you go. You returned a few minutes later, wrapped in your blanket and holding your tea, settling back into your chair. Kate cast you the occasional concerned glance but didn’t say anything.

An hour passed, and the files you were working on blurred together as your grogginess grew. Kate, now finished with the closet and tidying up, noticed you slumping further into your chair.

“Alright, that’s it,” Kate said, walking over and gently tugging the files from your hands.

“Kate—”

Before you could protest further, she bent down and scooped you up in her arms, blanket and all, cradling you against her chest in a bridal style.

“Kate!” you yelped, though your voice was weak, and you made no real attempt to resist.

“Shush,” she said softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’re not feeling well. Bed, now.”

You mumbled something about being fine, but Kate wasn’t having it. She carried you back to the bedroom, laying you down with care. She tucked the blanket snugly around you, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“Stay here and rest,” she murmured, her voice low and soothing.

You sighed, already half-asleep, but not before managing a quiet, “You’re so stubborn.”

Kate smiled, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “Always.”

She stayed with you until your breathing evened out, her fingers gently tracing soothing patterns on your arm. As you drifted off, the last thing you felt was the warmth of her presence, a sense of comfort settling over you like a second blanket.

#imagine #kate bishop x reader #mcu kate bishop #kate x reader #kate bishop x female reader #kate bishop x you #wlw #hawkeye series

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catmask · 1 year ago

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Do you have any advice for continuing to use your planner once you start? I'm going to be starting one for the first time soon, but I worry I'll have issues sticking to it even if it helps.

it might not be the advice you want, but if your planner doesnt 'stick' theres usually a few reasons (at least that ive found) as to why-

the planner doesnt actually help you remember the things youre supposed to. i prefer very specific, small lists (so i like having food, work tasks, exercise/self care and chores separate) where a lot of planners ive found just give you one big block for the day. when i used those, i would manually separate the lists, usually run out of space, and then give up and not maintain using it.

its not convenient to use! either the size is too clunky, the pages are not pleasant to write on/bleed and become illegible, or - what ive found happens to people a LOT - they focus on making their planner so pretty they take forever to actually write stuff down. your planner is supposed to be a tool to help you, so taking care of it is important, but for functionality sake... it ISNT supposed to be a journal. you dont have to treat it so delicately youre afraid to make mistakes or write too sloppily

when are you planning/writing in it? i write one or two important tasks for the next day as im going to bed, and then add the rest the morning after when i see how im feeling. this makes it so im not using my phone right when i wake up or before i go to bed too, which ive found puts me in a lot better/productive of a mood...

theres more reasons, but ultimately it comes down to 'is it convenient?' 'is it pleasant?'. trying to form habits you resist naturally is much more difficult than trying to find things that are small adjustments, if you try to change everything about yourself all at once, you'll very likely just fall flat! if the planner you have now isnt working... you might just need to be pickier about which one you get. the one i have now was 5 dollars, but i got it because it had the kind of formatting i was specifically looking for.

#long post #mailbox

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atthecenterofeverything · 2 months ago

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the issue when trying to discuss ableism in any capacity on this website (degeneration theory, AI, phones, tiktok, rhetoric about Going Outside, cartoons, appeals to normalcy, manual labor, whatever the usual topics are) is that people will, in almost 100% of cases, respond to you with "well i'm also disabled and i don't use it as an excuse / i'm also disabled and this has nothing to do with disability / i'm also disabled and its ableist of you to say this about disabled people."

ofc this has to do with 1. the fact that the amount of users who identify as neurotypical on this website is close to 0; 2. the word disabled, as used in this context, does not really refer to a coherent group of people with unifying experiences; 3. that it reifies disability (and what is considered to lie inside and outside of it) as something non-contextual and 4. that, obviously, you being able to do something as a (disabled) person informs in no way what another (disabled) person can do. but to me the core issue with this reasoning is this: how does the fact that your experiences impede your functioning to some degree within our current society make you an authority on all matters related to this functioning? the assumption that this inherently qualifies you to decide how other people's experiences are shaped by those systems (or how those systems work and support themselves!) is ridiculous. your (and everyone else's) experiences inform your opinions, but they do not in any way mean that you do not come with your own biases, agenda, ideologies, unexamined ideas.

and that's why the common response (your functioning is likely less impaired than other disabled people's; you are likely experiencing a milder form of disability) to this line of thinking does not really in any way resolve this problem - ultimately making assumptions about people's personal life on a public platform is a losing game for many reasons. it creates a situation where listing the (often painful; often violent; often traumatizing) ways that you, personally, have struggled and experience disability is necessary to enter the conversation. well i used to think aliens were kidnapping me and I still never hurt someone. well i couldn't get out of bed for six months but i still think making things with your hands is a crucial part of humanity. well i'm intellectually disabled but i still find ways to engage with serious theory. like ok. what does that have to do with anything exactly?

#disability #antipsych #ok to rb

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ctrlsatoru · 1 year ago

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DIABLO chapter two - TOJI FUSHIGURO

content: techbro!toji, reader is gojo's little sister, age gap (toji's in his late 30s, reader in mid 20s) kind of ooc toji, suggestive themes, no smut yet. protective!toji and also asshole!toji. warnings: 18+ only. suggestive themes. explicit language, toji being toji. minors do not interact. pairing: toji fushiguro x afab gojo!reader word count: 8k tags: @liitlesushi a/n: ok so this might be longer than I anticipated and also semi slow burn. it'll be worth it, trust. summary: It's Gojo's anniversary party, you're doomed by your Satoru's whims, haunted by your father's scheming, and now a devilish third player appears: Toji Fushiguro. And he's here to collect. previous chapter - next chapter

Toji opens his eyes, manually focusing on the ceiling above him. The strange pattern spun in slow circles, and then it settled.

This bed is not his own. The pillow feels too flat under his head, which is throbbing painfully. He feels like a dozen horses ran over him. A voice, distinctly female, unnecessarily loud, makes him wince and curse under his breath.

“... If I agree, and I haven’t, you’re not picking my outfit. Know that.”

This is unlike him. He can’t remember a thing. The one good thing about not recognizing the bed is that he’s not gonna have to deal with a strange woman in his place–

“Because your conception of what’s socially acceptable to wear to a formal function is not tethered to earthly reality, Satoru.”

Oh.

It’s you.

You’re on the phone, standing by floor-to-ceiling windows. The sunlight casts off your ring like white laser when you turn, blinding him.

“Mornin’” he croaks, pushing himself to sit against rough the rattan bed frame. The room moves from side to side, like you’re both stuck in a boat, and not in one of Haibara's many guest rooms. It’s all coming back to him, the party, watching you and your boyfriend’s fight, the deck.

“Oh. Hey, buddy.” you say idly, looking over your shoulder as you sit on the other side of the bed, your ring-covered finger tying some slutty sandals around your ankles like some kind of shibari countess. The strap of your top falls as you lean over. Toji’s buffering.

His ears must be fucking deceiving him.

Buddy?

The fuck?

He can’t for the life of him remember anything after the deck. You’re zooming through the room, texting furiously. On top of that, you look fresh and plump like lettuce out of the fridge, don’t you? But he had to blink several times to break through the layer of crust around his eyelashes, and his body is telling him you two fucked like animals for the past 12 hours.

Or he spent the weekend in the trenches.

He feels wildly unprepared for this morning after, and it’s a just fucking relief that you’re keeping your distance until you start tap tap taping your little heels to the door.

“The hell do you think you’re goin’?”

You stop, surveying him over your shoulder like he’s coming close to being some sort of inconvenience.

And then the corner of your lips lifts, the mole on your cheek jumping with the motion.

“It was fun.” Your phone starts ringing again. The sound drills a hole into Toji’s temples. “Too bad it never happened.”

With that, you’re gone.

You abandon Toji with a bunch of unconscious people scattered around the house and Haibara, who’s still young enough to not know what a real hangover is. The kid will just not shut up about some hardcore surveillance system he had installed around the house recently after he noticed someone was stealing from his Kaws collection.

Toji listens to the whole story, sipping on the cold pressed green juice Haibara made himself, simply refusing to use the crystal straw, and makes a promise to himself. You’ll pay for whatever it is you did to him.

Even if he doesn’t remember what that was. Yet. It doesn’t matter. You’ll pay anyway. Nicely.

“Say, kid.” he asks Haibara, licking the green foam off his lips and putting down the empty glass on the counter. The juice tasted just like it looks, which is cow puke, but his mind is somewhere else. Machinating. Scheming.

“This system of yours, does it cover the whole house?”

Here’s the thing.

There are many things Toji isn’t.

For starters, he’s not easily bothered by most things, a trait that people usually mistake for a personal attack, like it has anything to do with them and isn’t just the hand that he was dealt. People assume others, in this case him, think about them more than he can be bothered to.

He’s not a control junkie either, not anymore. He left those days behind.

Control isn’t something he needs to worry about anymore. He has plenty of it. If something gets out of line, it gets back on it automatically. That’s just the way life is. Sure, he had his vices back then; lactose, gambling, adrenaline, women.

But the thing is, you learn a few things with age, right? Shiny things lose their sparkle. The excitement wears off. Nothing is safe from becoming predictable, not even the rush of hearing bone crack under his fists or the juiciest, tightest pussy presented to him on a tray.

And this sheds a light on the fact that he’s way past the age of being pussy whipped.

“You cannot be serious.”

So why the fuck is Shiu Kong looking at him like that?

And who does he think he is standing next to him, all up on his screen, and mind you, only alive thanks to the fact that Toji has lost some edge from his gory days?

He shuts down the tab like a kid who got caught watching porn on the family PC.

“You listen to me. Don’t you ever fucking do that—”

“The Gojo kid?”

Toji’s eyebrows dig into his face because you’re certainly not a kid. No. Kids don’t look like that. Kids most certainly don't go around passing people horse tranquilizer or whatever the fuck it is you fed him with that glossy mouth of yours.

And that’s what you did. That’s as far as he can remember.

“Is that what’s been–”

“I’m gonna stop you before you say some dumb shit and piss me off any further.”

Shiu’s been pestering him for days now about the upcoming iteration and the threat of several deadlines. Toji has been brushing it off. No nagging back or shutting down his complaints.

Somehow, his silence only pushes the stick further up Shiu’s ass. Like he’s his sexually neglected wife after forty years of marriage.

Truth is, he hasn’t given the dynamic with his CFO/best friend much thought lately. Why would he when there’s an infuriating, mouthy woman with siren eyes that somehow look down at him even when he’s about two heads taller than–

You.

“—stalking the poor girl on the desktop version of Instagram.”

Toji returns to the conversation. “I don’t stalk people. I’m a grown-ass man.”

And you’re not a girl either. You’re something else. He hasn’t figured what yet.

“Mm. So am I.” Shiu says, still standing there with his hands in his pockets, head tilting down at some forgotten paperwork on his desk. “And even I know looking at someone’s profile on a desktop computer is a concerning level of unemployment, which you’re not at. Yet.”

Toji’s not that thick-headed. He knows he’s been distracted, but he can’t just brush that night at Haibara's away.

You pop up in his head unannounced and make yourself comfortable, rent fucking free. Like a little squatter. In the middle of meetings, when he's driving back home, at the gym, when he’s at the club with a gorgeous woman on his lap.

It’s becoming so frustrating that he’s started to despise you for real, and not just the made-up version of yourself he created when he met you and decided you were an ill-mannered bunny that he wanted to toy with for a bit.

In this scenario, of course, he was a wolf.

No one ever talks about how sometimes the bunny knocks the wolf out and bolts the morning after.

Days pass and his mind is blank of memories, no glimpses, no time-stopping sex flashbacks, just a bunch of strange vivid dreams about you that would make any mid-century french cult film director weep and the Soviet Union recoil. They distract him to the point of him nearly knocking the front teeth off his trainer’s face, or spilling orange juice all over his clothes this morning.

Toji’s positive you didn’t fuck. Sure, you had a bit of bed hair, but your face lacked the I-was-fucked-by-the-Toji-Fushiguro glaze he's used to seeing in women and takes pride in. You looked perfectly fine, collected enough to be giving your dimwit brother hell on the phone and fuck with him before disappearing.

It was fun.

He was also wearing underwear, and you walked just fine. No wobbly legs or tilted hips. No bruises on your neck or scratches on his back–

Too bad it never happened.

You had shared a bed, that much he knew. He caught a whiff of your perfume after you left. He had cursed you then, feeling like a pathetic fucking dog sniffing up some pillows, but now the confusion and annoyance faded to a curiosity that extends past the time in his head he gives to the best lays he’s had.

So today he put up an incognito tab and looked you up hoping to find something annoying, corny or pathetic about you to make you unappealing, and somehow he landed on your personal IG profile.

You posted a set of pictures three days ago of meaningless corners at some random location. The fourth picture is a snap of what looks like your desk. There’s a polaroid of you and your fiancé next to a stack of notebooks.

You’re standing in front of him, leaning your head to the side with his chin resting nice and cozy on your shoulder, his nose pressed against your neck. Toji's lip curled in distaste.

He found your twitter account as well, because why not? And found nothing of particular interest. You stick to promoting your work and that's the end of it. Other people in your circle, on the other hand…

Toji went through a twitter phase not too long ago. He found endless amusement in pissing people off with less than 140 characters and replying to those who enjoyed his work. He uninstalled the app the second he found people selling mugs with screencaps of his tweets.

Safe to say the decision made Shiu’s and the PR team quite happy.

He’s out of the loop with the overall discourse, but it’s clear that you have farmed your own dedicated micro following online and your boyfriend is some kind of A24 flowerboy on the rise.

Toji heard of him before meeting you. His newfound success is the byproduct of his dreamy looks, a melancholic breakout role and the occasional activism, something that's been often questioned due to his relationship with you, and the consequential ties to your family.

Both of you, as a couple, act like viagra for a very specific, insufferable and presumptuous crowd. They’re hyper-focused on the fact that you haven’t posted him on your stories for weeks, that Hiroki allegedly deleted some posts with you on Instagram, and that he's been caught dreamily staring at his cute little female co-star during press conferences.

Why people choose to waste their time with their noses up stranger's ass is something Toji does not understand, life being as short as it is.

“Please tell me that’s not her twitter account,” Shiu says. Toji inhales sharply. “This is more pathetic than I thought. No wonder you haven’t gotten anything done in days.”

He kills the rest of the tabs, spitting over his shoulder “I can’t very well do my fucking job if you’re breathing over my fucking shoulder, can I? You know how I fucking feel about people standing behind me when I’m trying to get shit done.”

“Twitchy.” Shiu notes and takes his sweet time walking around his desk, plopping down on the chair.

“Yep, take a seat, why don’t you.” Toji grumbles.

Shiu drums his fingers against his knee, a sign that he’s craving a cigarette, surveying him.

“So I’m gonna take a leap of faith here and assume this is some kind of executive-level scheming, and you’re just exploiting a vulnerability.”

Toji’s face twists like he sucked on a lemon at the mere thought of it.

“You know damn well the day I do business with that old cunt will be the day your ex-wife comes clean about what she did at that yoga retreat in Bali and asks for forgiveness.”

“Figures. So?”

“You’d probably take her back. Fucking cuck.”

“She really got under your skin.” Shiu notes, unbothered by the unprovoked attack.

Toji sniffs, comes down from the spike of anger, and finds a more comfortable position on his chair.

“She owes me.”

Shiu leans his head back, mildly amused.

“You adding usury to your ledger now?”

“Not money.”

“Alright then, I don’t want to know.”

Lies. But Shiu knows better than to push too much. Toji’s the type to hoard details not because he’s afraid of compromise, just to be an asshole.

It’s refreshing to see him almost… desperate. If you were anything like your brother, Shiu thought, you might be just the perfect little karma agent for his best friend.

“Fine. You get that business sorted. You’re no use to me if you’re distracted.”

“You worry about sorting your own business and I’ll worry about mine, Kong.”

Shiu stands up, fighting back a smile until he opens the door, stopping at the sight of Toji’s assistant about to knock.

“What is it?” Toji asks, scratching his eyebrow, already exhausted.

Keiko looks down at the tablet in her hands, hesitant.

“The team at Gojo has reached out, sir. It seems Gojo Shinobu would like to invite you to dinner next week.”

The look on Shiu’s face as he slowly turns to face him is priceless. Toji rests his elbows on his desk, a sinister smile pulling at his scar.

“Well, isn’t that interesting?”

“Interesting indeed.” Shiu agrees. Keiko eyes them skeptically, because her boss smiling like that cannot mean anything good for society, or her sleep schedule.

“I better get to work then, eh?”

“Anytime would be nice, yes.” Shiu says, turning to Keiko. “I guess I’ll finally find out about Bali.”

So you might be thinking, look at him backtracking like that.

Don’t get him wrong, it’s nothing like that.

Toji’s sitting across from Gojo Shinobu, the man, the myth, the bigot himself, with absolutely no intention of making business with him.

He’s just sniffing the territory.

In person and up close, Shinobu's a disturbing aged mix of you and your brother: the hair and the uncanny valley eyes went to him, but the eyebrows, the slope of his nose, it’s you. Even the handshake, firm and tight like a war general, reminds Toji of you.

Gojo Shinobu’s old as the fucking bible. His eyes are graying, eyelids sagging but it's clear that grandpa's still sharp.

For the record, Toji doesn’t like the old fart. He represents many things that he despises about older generations, and his business model is one of the many reasons for the country living in the past, but he’s not about to get political.

Not liking Gojo Shinobu doesn't mean he has no respect for him, so he’s honest and immediately shuts down the proposal of Gojo being involved in future Diablo releases.

Dignified, not happy, but never one to accept a no, Shinobu just smiles, brushes his beard like a Ghibli villain, and switches the subject.

Alcohol involved and pretending to put business talk aside, the conversation flows easily. Your father has a surprisingly entertaining dry sense of humor. Toji supposes you stop giving a shit when you have one foot in the grave, he also imagines the borderline cruel wit had something to do with your mother getting knocked up with you at the peak of her career as an actress and sex symbol.

“I hear you have a kid.”

“Two, actually.” Toji corrects, remembering that he’s supposed to pick up Tsumiki in an hour. Ballet class. She’s getting rather serious about it. “A girl and a boy.”

“Ah, good balance.” Shinobu nods with a knowing smile. “They listen to you? How old are they?”

“15 and 16. And they do.”

They don’t, at least not all the time, but they do when it matters. They’re teenagers, not soldiers. Megumi and Tsumiki are good kids, certainly better than he was at their ages, they don’t need him ordering them around, watching their every step.

“Dangerous, dangerous age.” your father hums. “You make sure they do that, save yourself the bitterness in the future.”

Damn. Alright. Toji lifts his eyebrows and leans back, listening. That’s all it takes.

“You’d be surprised. You get a little too light handed, and a perfect sapling can get ruined just like that.” he snaps his fingers. “It’s harder to straighten them up as they grow up.”

Toji takes a long, deep sip, fighting back a chuckle. He has no concerns when it comes to who or how people choose to fuck, but the blatant homophobia is always amusing.

“And then they gang up on you.” Shinobu scoffs. Toji can imagine you and your brother scheduling a year worth of publicly terrorizing Shinobu. “No woman? You raising them on your own?”

“I am.”

“Good man. It’s hard, honest work. Make sure you look for a good one to settle with, not all of them are in touch with their motherly instinct.”

His assistant comes in, tells him someone has arrived, and Shinobu makes a noise with his nose or mouth that reminds Toji of an exasperated horse.

“Take the advice from me. You see—”

He leans over the table, brushes his beard.

“If, and I am not wishing this upon you, your daughter comes of age and after years of picking up and dropping all sorts of interests with no interest in commitment—"

He pauses, chuckling humorlessly.

"—comes to the conclusion that she wants to waste her life playing with cameras and hanging out with gender-bending creatives,”

The word is said with so much despise Toji feels like there should be a new phobia for it.

“You have to sit down and choose what’s more important; letting her waste her potential away, or being in her good graces. More often than not it can’t be both, that’s just how it is.”

Perhaps Toji hasn’t given you enough credit. You could’ve ended up a lot worse than you are. After the things he said to you at the dock, knocking him out was nothing. You could’ve chopped him up, kept his dismembered body inside an industrial fridge, and he’d see where you're coming from.

“But when she tells you she wants to let some vulture into your family and make him blood, you take matters into your own hands.” he nods firmly, like it’s Toji he’s mad at, and finally looks over his shoulder, nostrils flared.

Asaya Hiroki approaches the table. Jetlagged eyes, tail between his legs.

“Fushiguro, this is Asaya Hiroji, my daughter’s boyfriend.”

Hiroki looks like he has half a mind to correct him on either the name or relationship status but he’s too fond of keeping his head attached to his body.

Hiroki’s pretty. Toji can’t compete in that department. He looks like he puts sugar and milk in his tea and smashes the china on the floor when he’s told he can’t have more, like a psychotic puppy.

In other words, you make sense together.

You like to look at pretty things so your boyfriend’s cute. No harm in acknowledging that, though he remembers Tsumiki mentioning that when noses dip down like that it means there’s some kind of prosthetic.

And if you pay attention, really read between the lines of his 90’s heartthrob face, something’s off about him.

But what does he care? A nose job is no crime. Hiroki has other flaws to offer. For example, he has a rather shitty way of hiding the fact that he’s doing something he’s not supposed to.

Perhaps, even, going behind someone’s back.

And the guy calls himself an actor.

Satisfied with the results of what he thought would be a waste of an afternoon, he excuses himself. He’ll be just in time to get to Tsumiki’s class before it’s done and have the other kids’ moms and nannies ogle at him. Tsumiki hates it when he does that.

“Don’t be a stranger, Fushiguro. I’d like to keep this channel between us open. I hope to see you at the anniversary party.”

“Pardon?” Toji stops, surprised.

“The company’s anniversary party this Friday,” Shinobu says, like it’s obvious. “I’d like you to meet my son, and well, you’re already acquainted with my daughter.”

Hiroki’s round bobba eyes follow him all the way to the grand crystal doors. Toji has the distinct feeling that he was just part of Shinobu taking matters into his own hands.

He’s both disturbed and impressed. He never mentioned meeting you, and he’s pretty damn sure that this detail didn’t slip from your lips either.

Every year the company throws an anniversary party, and you and your brother and every high-level employee have to attend and listen to your father’s rendition of why diesel was better and how you’re all wimps for being born after the extinction of smallpox.

The one year that you didn’t attend, because you were stuck in Norway with a canceled flight, your father spent exactly 11 months reminding you of it like you had any say in the weather conditions of the North Sea.

Tonight might be his last speech as chairman, since he’s about to step down from his position after growing health concerns. The company has gone all out; live music, huge venue, ice sculptures, people are dancing. They've put so much effort your father's probably more annoyed than anything.

Suguru approaches you at the empty family table and sits down next to you with a knowing smile, like he's thinking the same thing as you while you're watching people waltz. He’s looking as handsome as ever, you just miss the bangs framing his face.

“So, when do you think he’s going to publicly execute the medical staff that diagnosed him with Alzheimer’s?”

“Probably after he declares war on Gretha Thunberg.”

You’re wary. He might have everyone convinced, but it’s not like him to step down quietly. Your instincts are telling you to expect shenanigans tonight, and they’ve never once failed you.

“Seems too good to be true, don’t you think?” you say, eyeing the crowd. “I don’t know how Satoru’s so cool about it.”

Suguru sighs, craning his neck. “I wouldn’t say he is.”

And that’s when your brother slams his palm on the table. He leans over you and Suguru, eyeing the room like it’s the school cafeteria and he’s the king of prom.

And he kind of is. Today your father will officially name him his successor, so the sour look in his face makes you and Suguru share a look.

“Do you see Hideo Kojima on steroids hanging out with Nanamin? I guess next year we’ll have the Yakuza on the jazz band.”

You laugh, only half weirded out. Suguru looks up at your brother, confused.

“Who?”

“Toji Fushiguro.” Satoru drawls, icily amused, and your neck turns so fast Suguru worries it’ll break. “And his underling.”

Remember your intuition? Sirens start ringing in your head, and the edges of your vision start staining in with a deep burgundy color.

What on earth is he—

“Dad invited him.” Satoru says, still not sitting down, still scanning the room with deadly eyes. You feel the urge to look around and pinpoint his exact location, but you wait for him to point with his chin. “They’ve been seeing each other. Mimosas and manicures, I heard.”

You find him across the room, several tables between you, just over the elevated candles in the middle of your table, talking with Nanami and some man you don’t recognize.

You fight the weak but sensible urge to look away when he suddenly turns to your table and lifts his glass in your direction, like he felt the shit talking from a distance.

The room is vast, but you recognize the feeling of his eyes looking straight at you. Your brother is too occupied cursing under his breath while he mockingly lifts his glass to notice you gulping.

“You think dad’s hitting that?”

You try not to gag. “You’re sick.”

“Cause someone will owe me a loooot of money if that’s the case."

Your father's alleged bisexuality has been the subject of years of discourse between you. You don't think he has it in him, Satoru disagrees.

“Look at him, standing there like he’s threatening to swipe all the fertile wives in the room. Freak.”

You snort. A bit of your goes down the wrong pipe, Suguru pats your back.

“You better hold on to yours then.”

“Nah, he’s locked in. Ain’t cha, babes?”

You roll your eyes, feeling Suguru shake his head with a lovesick smirk. Your brother replies with a wink, lazily dropping his weight on the chair next to you, like you need to be in the middle of all that.

You lean back, stretching your neck and stranding up. “Ok, you can back up a little. It’s embarrassing enough to be matching with you.”

Satoru stretches his arm over your now empty seat. They’ve been purposefully keeping a distance, him and Suguru, people assume it’s for appearances' sake, but you know them better than that. They’re playing some game tonight, and you’d rather pluck out your lashes one by one than learn the details.

“And I distinctly remember asking you to stop feeding into those fucked up theories online about me terrorizing you as a child, but you had to take those creepy family portraits with the heads cut off. We don’t always get what we want, sis.”

And don’t you know that. Tonight was stressing enough without 6’ something with a lip scar, ever so subtly following with his eyes as you make your way around the party. Not too obvious for an outsider to notice, but just enough to make the exposed hairs at the back of your neck stand up.

You’re a little too energized. Like too many shots of espresso and Ritalin after an allnighter. You need somewhere to pour your energy into, a punching bag would be nice.

It makes no sense to start feeling threatened by Toji Fushiguro tonight, when he’s in your territory, but you do.

But you weren’t raised under the same roof as Gojo Shinobu and Gojo Satoru to be so easily intimidated, so you mingle, let people stop you for quick, boring catch ups and questions about being excited about your brother and what-have-you-been-up -tos, even those whose faces or names you can’t recall.

You smile, entertain and even ask people about their whereabouts, until you’re out of social battery for the rest of the season.

“Took you long enough.” you say, making a point of not looking at him.

His voice comes closer than you expected or feel sane about. Smooth and dark, in through your left ear.

“Patience is a virtue, haven’t you heard?”

His presence is more unnerving than you geared up for, and just like the first time, a shiver cuts through you. Something urges you to move and take a step sideways, out of the magnetic pull around him.

You finally take him in. Tailored in black, slightly tousled black hair that you know for a fact is unfairly soft, exuding confidence. Infuriating and magnetic as ever.

“Are you my new stepdaddy?”

A slap to his face would’ve stunned him less. Hell, he might’ve enjoyed it. You don’t give him a chance. His pants have no business getting tighter from that fucking question. Toji buffers again.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

He hums, hands in his pockets.

“Depends.”

You tilt your head.

“You into that kind of thing?”

You scoff, dismissive as always, but suspiciously purse your lips to one side before taking a sip of your drink. Perhaps gatekeeping a chuckle.

Head held high, nose up in the air. Toji takes your profile in. The light bouncing off the high points of your face, the deliberate, doll-like curl of your lashes, the soft slope of your neck and the dips and curves of your shoulders. Your dress painted a nice image in his head of your body from afar, so he refrains from going past your collarbones like the honorable man that he is.

“What? No backtalk? I’m disappointed.”

“I didn’t expect to see you any time soon.”

“Like I said, patience is a virtue.”

You roll your eyes and laugh dismissively. “You don’t believe that.”

“Bold assumption.” he counters. “I wanted to see how long you’d last entertaining guests, but your right eye started twitching and I suppose took some pity on you.”

“Aren’t you an empath.”

“Even to those who don’t deserve it.”

Your chin quivers, but you keep the smile to yourself with a quick sigh. Toji could look down at the way your chest rises and drops, but he’s not in a rush here.

“Why are you here?”

“Is that any way to speak to a guest? I’m sure Shinobu raised you better than that.”

Name dropping your father gets the exact reaction he was hoping for.

“Why are you here?” you repeat, enunciating slowly, but the words you want to say are don't fuck with me right now.

But you’re too precious for him to deny himself the pleasure. Not when you get riled up so deliciously.

“Your father was kind enough to invite me. It would’ve been rude to turn him down.”

“You’re not here to entertain him. He’s stepping down soon and you can’t stand him.”

“Doesn’t mean that I don’t respect him. Why else would I waste a perfectly nice friday night surrounded by a bunch of suck ups? Are you suggesting I have some ulterior motive?”

Your squint at him, like you don’t believe he has the guts to say it.

“Did you perhaps assume I’m here for… you?”

Toji wonders if your silence has anything to do with the white haired manchild looking your way for the second time.

“We do have something to settle. You owe me something, if I remember correctly.”

“I think you’re mistaking me for someone else.”

“Nice try. An explanation, does that ring any bells?”

Your head snaps up to him, the wisps of hair hanging from the sides of your face flow with the movement. The tip of your nose and your cupid’s bow catch the light, if he couldn’t see your face this close he’d mistake that for sweat.

He’s reminded of how you looked at the deck in contrast to the sight of you right now. A sheer layer of sweat was covering your skin, your plump thighs spilling on the wood surface, he'd kept his hands in his phone and held on to his own sanity.

“What is there to explain? Nothing happened.”

Toji tilts his head. “Lying is a bad, bad thing,”

“We didn’t do anything, Fushiguro.” you insist, lowering your voice. Toji looks over your head, bored with your attempts at gaslighting. “If you—”

“Do you want to dance?”

The nonchalant act drops, you unconsciously lean back and open your mouth like there’s not enough air in the room. Toji smiles at your hesitation, cold and challenging.

“It’s in your best interest.”

“How?”

“Because the old cunt that kept kissing your hand earlier is coming our way and I’m about to leave you alone with him” he lies and you don’t dare look over your shoulder to check, not wanting to risk making eye contact with the slimmy fucker.

It’s a bad idea. Being near Toji is a bad idea, dancing with him is the equivalent of putting on a vest bomb. Your father is somewhere in the room and your brother might act aloof but not a single interaction of his interest is going unnoticed.

Putting your hand in his is a bad, bad idea. The worst. But you suspect figuring out Toji Fushiguro’s intentions will take some compromise on your part, so you don’t hesitate when you grab his hand.

With his arm around you, he's reminded of a particularly striking dream he had about you days ago. The first thing he did when he woke up from it was open his app notes and write two words, perverse angel.

Now he knows it was actually deja vu; you close your eyes for a bit, the breathing image of reminiscing. This isn’t your first time in his arms.

The melody gets rather slow. You hold yourself with all the poise of a reluctant little heiress, defiant but serene as you look at him, arm resting over his.

While he’s growing quite fond of the sight of your neck exposed, he’d rather find the main pin and let your hair down. Let you get comfortable, not taut like you are in his hold.

“You look like a tall pint of guinness.”

Toji could do this all night. Just watch your expression drop, annoyance pinch at your temples.

One ankle betrays you, but he’s not about to let that happen. The arm around your waist keeps you steady, moving along with him. His grip is firm, but not overpowering.

“You’re an asshole.”

He’s right. You know it and you hate that he described it so right. You’re dressed in a black form fitting dress that goes down to your ankles, with and off-shoulder white band that wraps around your shoulders.

Toji laughs with that shark grin of his, his scar stretching.

“There’s nothing wrong with it.” He adds helpfully, hand coming up to straighten the fabric around your left shoulder. The air turns colder with the absence of his arm, but it returns to the spot in no time. “Wouldn’t have been my first choice, granted, but it’s a lovely dress. Perfect for a night at the pub, watching the game with the boys.”

“I think I’ll pass on the unsolicited fashion advice, thanks.”

“Come on. You can never go wrong with a red dress.” he counters, eyes dropping briefly. You wrinkle your nose, he acts like you just shit talked his religion “What?”

“Not my style.” you shrug.

“Now that’s just tragic.”

“If it makes you feel better, I’ll make sure to wear one to your funeral.”

The couples closest to you turn with different looks of controlled distaste. Toji laughs heartily, head thrown back and everything.

“I’ll hold you to that. I might just return just to see it with my own eyes.”

“Not sure doors open both ways in hell, but hey, more power to you.”

“So you wanna hear my theory?”

You sigh. “Nothing happened, Fushiguro. I mean it.”

What a terrible liar you are.

“I think you had a little alcohol in you and just couldn’t help yourself because you have a thing for problems.”

You nod sarcastically. “And of course, you’re the problem in question.”

“Well, yes.” he blinks. “And also, you don’t have half the self control you believe you have. So you freaked out and put me to sleep to stop yourself from doing something you thought you might regret.”

This is how it was. You had forgotten the rush, despite replaying time and time again your past conversations. Interacting with Toji Fushiguro is like playing five finger fillet, thrilling and grueling and high risk, but it’s a whole other thing with people around you. You can’t let up, all your senses need to be on guard.

“Aren’t you too old to be throwing a fit because I gave you more than you could handle?”

Toji’s eyes dig into yours, a hint of amusement and something else.

“Here’s a piece of advice: choose your words very, very carefully. They might come back to haunt you. ”

“It never happened. And it won’t.” You repeat with a cool tone. The pulse on your wrist drums against his own.

“I have to say, you’re a better actress than he is.” he mentions. “But denial does not suit you. We’re gonna have to do something about that or things will get very awkward real soon.”

“Actually I think we should focus on your rejection issues first.”

“I’m not a problem for you to solve, sweetheart.” he chuckles darkly, eyes knowing, never leaving yours.

Years of practicing the art of bullshitting in your household could not help you deny the fact that you're maddeningly, disturbingly attracted to him.

“What you see is what you get. And you could, if you stopped acting like I'm some line you're not allowed to cross.”

He makes you turn effortlessly, that’s when you see him. Hiroki. The words die on your lips, your stomach drops, all resolve wavers. He releases you and your arms hang limp on your sides.

He smirks sideways at you, eyes twinkling. You could push him off the roof of the building.

“Fix your face. I won’t behave if he tries picking a fight.”

You’ve always liked Nanami Kento. He’s one of your father’s closest, youngest and less... spineless advisors, the pathological victim of your brother's pestering, and always impeccably polite to you, sweet even.

But right now, when he’s introducing Toji Fushiguro and his friend whose name you didn't catch to Suguru and Hiroki, you’d love to hit him in the head with a hammer.

At least your brother is nowhere to be seen.

"Pleasure to meet you." Suguru says.

Hiroki has his arm around your waist. He's not looking at you. You know what the dimpling of his cheeks mean.

“We’ve met before actually, haven’t we?” Toji turns to him, brow burying into his face like he’s not too sure, shaking his finger in the air. “Correct me if I’m wrong. I don’t remember too well.”

Your heart is stuck in your neck, threatening to crawl out of your mouth. Suguru gives you an odd look.

“We have.” You don’t see the look on Hiroki’s face when he replies, but his tone is controlled.

“Yeah, I thought so.”

Shiu Kong says something, and Suguru responds another thing. It's all noise to you.

You grab a drink from a passing tray and the corner of Toji’s mouth tilts, his attention on Suguru’s conversation. You feel irrationally mad, like slapping him, but then he’d probably fix his jaw and look at you like you should've gone rougher and—

There’s something seriously wrong with you. Officially.

You grab Hiroki’s hand and pull him with you.

He’s confused, but follows you nonetheless. “Can you just wait for a–”

“We should ditch the party.” You tell him, but he doesn’t agree like he usually would and grabs your arm, stopping you at once, brown eyes searching yours.

“You’re not even gonna ask why I’m here?”

“My dad invited you?” you reply, confused by the offended look on his face.

“No. Why would he? You know how I feel about this kind of thing.”

Now you’re confused. You smell his breath and notice his flushed cheeks. “But you’re here.”

“Wow. Try to contain the excitement, why don’t you.” he scoffs. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to fly across continents and interrupt whatever the hell that wa—”

He’s starting to raise his voice, drawing attention, usually composed demeanor nowhere to be seen. You catch a whiff of alcohol on his breath.

“You’ve been drinking.”

His face drops. The volatile look in his eyes is not something you can deal with tonight.

You’re forever grateful for the woman announcing your father’s speech. Hiroki’s expression clears up, but he gives you a look that says you’ll resume the conversation later, soon, tonight.

Then he pulls you to his side and leads you closer to the podium.

Your father looks into the crowd with piercing blue eyes. You, like you have for the past few months, get a terrible feeling. Like if you were to take a picture right now, it would later be displayed as the moment before hell broke loose.

“... And as many of you know, the time has come for me to step back and allow a new generation to lead us forward."

The crowd hangs on his every word. You scan the room for the 10th time, looking for a head full of white hair.

Hiroki notices your unease and looks down at you, rubbing your arm. “Hey, what is it?”

“I don’t see Satoru.”

Your father continues, voice unwavering.

"It is with great confidence and optimism that I announce my successor, a person who embodies our values and vision."

You finally find Satoru at the back, he’s with Suguru and Nanami. Waving his arms around him, hair a mess, pissed.

"Please join me in welcoming our future CEO, Noritoshi Kamo."

The room bursts into applause, but before his words can fully register in your mind, a sudden, sharp crack echoes through. For a split second collective confusion takes over, and then it turns to full blown panic.

You watch your father duck under the podium. Your legs move on their own.

Gunshots

People are running, crawling and diving for cover all around. Tables are overturned, glass shatters. It's all white noise.

"Get down!" someone shouts.

Something slams into you.

Toji grabs you before you can try getting back up. Exit located, going straight for it.

“My dad," you protest with wide eyes, hastily trying to look over your shoulder. He has half a mind to throw you over his shoulder.

“He’s fine.” he assures, hand covering your head, pushing it down.

Security sprung into action in no time at the first gunshot, formed a barrier around your father and hurried him down the stage. Toji saw it with his own eyes right before he caught you running like a tweaking baby reindeer, right before some dipshit shoved you to the ground.

You keep protesting, resisting, trying to go in the opposite direction, so he has no choice but to lift you up and throw you over his shoulder.

A colorful string of panicked and enraged expletives follow. You’re livid, fists slamming into his back without mercy. Toji pays no mind, pushing through the crowd, making his way to the emergency exit.

He doesn't put you down until you're both alone in the emptiness of some sterile corridor. And you're still rambling, running your mouth at him.

“Shut up for a second, will you?"

That does it. You're flabbergasted, opening your mouth again in full Karen fashion.

Toji doesn’t care for it. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” you reply furiously, fist tight on your sides. You catch your breath, step down from your heels and start to speed walk down the corridor. “I have to find my father. And Satoru.”

“They’re safe.” Toji catches up to you in two or three long steps. “Gojo’s security doesn’t fuck around. I mean, they did fuck up letting a guy bring a gun inside the premises, but they were quick with it.”

Your nostrils flare. Toji hears voices at the corner and pushes you behind him. He sees a couple of guys in black in the reflection of a fire extinguisher cabinet. Dressed in black, wired ears, walking like they know they might lose their jobs tonight.

“Hey, I got the heiress here. She’s looking for her old man.”

They look at you in recognition like you're their golden ticket out of unemployment and scort you up the fire exit stairs, all the way to a conference room where your father and his people are gathered. The altercation can be heard from outside.

“I've done this my whole life, do not question me.”

The room is packed. Your father, his disciples, your brother and his boyfriend, a very uncomfortable looking group of cops. An older lady approaches you, asking you if you're ok, but your eyes and attention at stuck on your father and your brother dueling for the whole room to see.

Your brother stops his pacing and turns to face Shinobu.

“No, that's not it. I see it, I see you. You’re too prideful to let me clean up after your fuck ups.”

Getting caught in a family brawl was not in Toji’s plans tonight, but he stays put, watching you approach them with confusion all over your face. They don’t notice you.

Gojo Shinobu levels his son with warning eyes, finger pointed at him. “Watch your words, Satoru. You don’t know what you’re talking about. My decision is final.”

He turns around, beckons the woman who approached you to him, but your brother is not done.

“You know I can do it." he says, your father stops and turns to him with death in his eyes and his lips pressed into a thin line. "You know I can. You just can’t stand the thought of me succeeding where you fucking failed.”

The look on your face says it all, you don’t know what your brother is talking about, and that you’re in no headspace to ask either. Satoru's not just pushing the limits, he just sped past them.

The words hit your father square in the chest.

Things are about to get ugly.

“You’re a spoiled, entitled brat who thinks he deserves everything handed to him on a silver platter. Look at what you’ve made of your life, acting like everything is a fucking game. You think I’ll let someone like you lead what I spent my life building?”

You turn to him, mouth falling open. “Jesus christ, dad.”

“Over my dead fucking body.”

Your brother’s face contorts in rage. He —predictably and unpredictably at the same time— lunges forward, fist aimed at your father’s face.

The room springs into action. Your father's guard dogs, the cops, Nanami Kento, you beat them all to it, but it’s ultimately Toji who gets to him.

In another situation, Toji would've found a comfortable seat for himself, perhaps a drink, and watch the havoc unfold. Let the son champion the decade long cause of union workers, environmental hippies, human rights, consumer advocacy activists alike, and punch the lights out of his father's smug face.

Then he'd spare no details for Shiu over a nice dinner.

But he grabs Gojo Satoru's arm instead, stopping him mid swing.

Blue, crazy and uncanny eyes land on him.

As a general rule, he avoids getting involved in other people's affairs, especially when it comes to love spats or family drama. However, when he says,

“Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”

He means it.

Your father chuckles dismissively.

Your brother watches as he walks away, chest heaving up and down.

“Toru?”

Surely those two tiny syllables did not come from you. If denial did not suit you, this uncertainty is just disturbing. It’s not right.

“What was that?” The question comes from the depths of your throat, voice nothing like Toji has heard before.

“Not now.” your brother snaps, turning around and walking out. Geto Suguru following behind him.

Toji’s phone starts ringing, he tries to shake off the unsettling image of you before walking out of the room to answer.

It's Shiu. He's waiting outside, watching the police drag the gunman into a car, and wondering where he is. Toji sighs, comes to terms with the fact that he's on a streak of sorts tonight, because once again, against his own code, he tells him Shiu to leave without him, not answering any questions about his whereabouts.

People have dispersed with your father gone from the scene. Toji walks back inside, pocketing his phone, and finds you by a corner of the room. Your boyfriend has found you again, fuck knows where the came from.

He's pulling his phone out, ready to call Shiu and tell him he's on his way down, but you're shaking your head, running your hand through your hair like you forgot it's pulled back.

Hiroki gets in front of you when you try to walk away. You put your hands between you, like the last thing you need is someone coming close. You must've just said something nasty, hit a tender spot, because he freezes where he stands.

Toji drops his arm.

Once again you try to walk around him, but this time Hiroki gets a hold of your arms.

“Why?” he asks. You’re looking at him like he grew a second head. “We talked about it all the—”

Toji's wandered close enough to catch your reply.

“What do you mean why? Have you lost your mind? I can’t leave Satoru alone right now, Hiroki.”

“In case you didn’t notice he just fucking left you here.”

You flinch. Recoil. Push against his hold.

“Let go. I’m sorry, but I can’t deal with you tonight.”

“You can’t? Right. You can’t. Tell me something, do you have any idea what kind of shit I’ve had to put up with—”

You snarl at him, baring your teeth, bare feet stomping on the carpeted floor. Hiroki doesn’t even sway with your attempts, or flinch at the near animalistic way you look at him.

“I fucking don’t. And I don’t want to know. I didn’t ask you to be here tonight.” you reply, tone vicious, jaw locked. “You don’t get to hold it against me.”

The next thing Hiroki says pours out of his mouth like it’s a known fact, or an acceptable thing to say to the woman you’re going to marry.

“They don’t give a shit about you. Never have. Never will. You know that.”

By now, you two have caught Kento Nanami's attention. He wraps up whatever he's discussing with a couple of men and approaches the scene.

Hiroki does not let up, it's easy to see that he will not. He fixes his grip like you'll turn to liquid and spill between his fingers if he gets distracted.

You wince.

Toji walks over with four or five committed strides until he's between you two. The abrupt interruption and breach of personal space startles Hiroki, gives you the chance to step back.

“I think that’s enough.”

“Oh, this is just great.”

Hiroki chortles, looking away like he’s collecting his thoughts. Biting his lips in contemplation. Nodding to himself once or twice. Toji regards him coldly, lets him gather his thoughts, or the guts to attempt something idiotic like, who knows, get himself pummeled to the ground.

“You know, I keep seeing you everywhere lately, why is that?”

Toji shrugs, uninterested and unintimidated. Hiroki won't get his face cut even if he deserves it, and it's not that Toji's against the idea of being a vessel for some sort of long time coming retribution. In fact, he'd be doing it just for his own satisfaction.

But the night should end now. He’s gonna have a hard time forgetting how you looked earlier when your moron of a brother stormed past you and left you standing there, in the middle of a room full of people that did not care about you, heels hanging from your hand, shoulders sagging.

Doesn’t mean he’s not gonna give the boy something to pop a vein about.

“Why don’t you take a guess?”

Something snaps behind Hiroki's eyes. Toji's front row this time, and he confirms everything he suspected about him.

And he makes his mind up.

Hiroki looks at you, lids heavy, ears red. “Are you fucking him?”

How predictable. Toji looks at you over his shoulder, and somehow, you understand. It's barely noticeable, but you shake your head.

“You have to leave.” you sound a lot more like yourself this time. Only tired. Thoroughly exhausted. Like your feet are about to give out under you. Toji's not blind to the way you’ve been putting all your weight on one side.

Hiroki pauses, realization lands on him that you’re talking to him, and not Toji.

“Get on a plane, fly back to Spain, and stay there for as long as you have to.”

“This is fucking unbelievable.”

“I disagree. Have a safe flight.”

Face distorted, Hiroki stomps out, brushing past unfazed Nanami Kento, who looks at him like he’s a speck of dust. He approaches you and asks you if you're ok.

You ask about your dad, he tells you he’s currently talking to the police and insists on getting you a car and someone to accompany you. Says you should rest.

“I can take her home.” Toji says. You peer at him like that's the last thing you were expecting to hear, and frankly, Toji's just as surprised by himself.

And then, against all odds, you nod.

Nanami watches Toji carefully, studying him intently. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Keep me posted?”

His features soften just a bit, he touches your shoulder, promises he will.

He doesn’t keep his eyes off Toji until you two make it to the door. Toji might find the guy agreeable, stick up his ass and all.

#toji fanfiction #toji x reader #toji smut #toji x you #toji fushiguro #toji fanfic #jjk fanfiction #jjk smut

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