#I love how they play with themes all the way through

[lostfracturess]

symptoms and causes | ch. 16

pairing — professor gojo x med student reader

summary — he's arrogant, self-centered, and he's your professor. renowned for his brilliance in neurosurgery and infamous for his allure. too bad you have to work with him on this research team. now you're stuck with dr. satoru gojo, delving into the complexities of both the brain and the heart — and of how far you'd go for a love that could destroy not only him but you as well.

word count — 11.5 k

warnings — 18+ ONLY. contains explicit sexual content, substance and alcohol abuse, dark and themes, unhealthy relationships, codependency, trauma, medical content and mentions of death, illness, abuse, and blood. full trigger warnings available on the masterlist. reader discretion is advised.

previously — unable to watch satoru turn to his abusive family for help with naoya's massive lawsuit, you're heading to his party against satoru's wishes, hoping to find something, anything, that might help his situation. but what happens when satoru decides to crash the party? and what will you find in that locked room?

author's note — hello lovelies, welcome back !! this chapter picks up right where we left off, but through satoru's eyes this time. also important note: this chapter contains a brief mention of SA concerning a background event not related to any of our main characters. as always, please mind all trigger warnings. and now enjoy the chaos <3

series masterlist + playlist + ao3 + wattpad

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I saw her the moment I stepped into that goddamn party, and everything inside me went still. 

Like that moment right before you drown, when the water first fills your lungs and the world goes quiet. Terrifying and so still.

She stood there under those cheap neon lights, looking scared and yet so beautiful—beautiful in that terrible way that makes you want to destroy something, that makes you want to tear it apart just to prove it's real.

Every fiber of my being screamed to go to her, to grab her and get her the hell out of here. Away from this place, away from him, away from all of it. 

But I couldn't move. Couldn't let the mask slip, not here, not with all these eyes on me. So I plastered on that easy smile and played the part of the mildly annoyed professor who just happened to crash a student party.

As if my skin wasn't crawling with the need to use again, veins begging for something—anything—to take the edge off. As if the mere sight of her didn't make me feel like someone had reached into my chest and ripped my fucking heart out, her next breath away from something I might regret.

She looked up at me with those pretty eyes of hers, and I saw the guilt there, swimming just beneath the surface. And for one horrible moment I thought, Good. Let it pull her under like it's pulling me. Let it fill her lungs the way fear is filling mine.

I almost hated her then — for lying to me again and again, for doing stupid things behind my back again and again, for making me feel this goddamn helpless again and again and again and fucking again.

But what lay beneath was worse. Because I knew why she was here. Always trying to save me, even if it meant throwing herself into the deep end, drowning right alongside me. And that's the worst kind of torture, isn't it? 

Watching the person you love cut themselves open on all your broken pieces, bleeding themselves dry, yet still reaching for more. And that thought made me want to scream.

"We'll talk about this later," I said, forcing that easy smile back onto my face though everything inside me was screaming to get her out of this goddamn house before she got herself into more trouble. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I need a drink."

I pushed past her, shoulder grazing hers, and I had to clench my fists to keep from turning back. Had to bite my tongue until I tasted blood to keep from saying something I couldn't take back. She had no idea what she did to me. Or maybe she did, and that was even worse.

Love and hate tangled together in my chest until I couldn't breathe. Because that's what she does to me — makes me feel everything at once, until I can't tell what's real anymore. Until I can't tell if I want to love her or ruin her. Until I can't remember which one would hurt more. Who I was before her. If I was anyone at all.

And it hit me then, as I left her standing there, all defiance and reckless stupidity and so unbearably precious it physically hurt—this must be what they mean when they say love and hate are two sides of the same coin. Because I loved her so much it felt like hatred. Hated her so deeply it could only be love.

Always on the razor's edge. One wrong step, and we'd both bleed out. Maybe we already were.

When was the last time I even went to a party like this anyway? Years ago, probably. Back when I could still pretend I had my shit together. Before I understood what it meant to love someone so consuming that self-destruction became a form of worship.

I needed a drink. Maybe ten. Maybe something stronger. 

Bass thundered through the floorboards as I shouldered my way deeper into the house, some shitty pop track slamming in my skull. Or maybe that was just the rage still burning in my bloodstream.

Sweaty bodies pressed in on all sides, but I barely noticed, lost in the chaos raging in my head. Lost in the desperate need scratching at my throat to turn back, to find her, to make sure she hadn't slipped away like every other good thing in my life.

I ordered vodka. First sip burned, but not enough. Never enough to wash away the fear, to forget that she was here, in this house, with him. The same bastard who'd tried to—My grip tightened on the glass. Yeah. Definitely needed something stronger. Here's hoping these kids still remember how to party.

"Professor Gojo! No way!"

A group of my students appeared beside me at the bar, their faces flushed with alcohol. Aoi, of course—that kid was everywhere. And Miwa, looking starstruck as always. Just my fucking luck.

"Is this what you all do instead of studying for my exams?" I asked, letting that easy smile slide into place.

"Come on, Prof, we've been killing ourselves over your damned hard exams," Miwa chimed in, all bright eyes and alcohol courage. "We deserve a break."

I let myself slip into the familiar role. The cool professor. The guy everyone wants to hang with. It was easier than I expected, letting their drunken energy wash over me, cracking jokes, making them laugh. Almost enough to wash out the withdrawal that made it nearly impossible to think straight. Almost enough to forget why I was really here. Almost.

Aoi was rambling about something, but I wasn't listening. Instead, I turned slightly, catching her gaze across the room. She looked at me like she wanted to kill me. Funny, how we wanted the same thing sometimes.

My woman. My stubborn, reckless, absolutely infuriating woman. Even now, with me watching her from across the room, I could see that defiance bright in her eyes. Even now, even here, in defiance of everything I'd asked of her, she stood her ground. 

It was admirable, really. And sometimes, that very defiance made me want to break her. Perhaps only to prove I could. To prove she wasn't in control. Perhaps because I was terrified that I wasn't. That I never was.

It's terrifying how thin that line is.

"See? Fucking legend!" Aoi raised his beer, at something I said, I think. I can't remember. Something clever, probably. Something that fits the role. "To the coolest professor on campus!" 

I raised my glass, I think. I can't remember. And that's when I caught sight of them by the front entrance. Suguru walked up to her, still standing where I'd left her, and cradled her face in his hands, tilting it up to meet his gaze. My god, could he be any more obvious about it?

I knew that look in his eyes. Had seen it countless times before, during all those long hours in the lab when he thought I wasn't paying attention. The way he'd lean in close to check her work, his hand lingering on her shoulder a moment too long. The way his eyes would follow her every move.

My best friend, in love with the love of my life. What a sick fucking joke.

He was examining her face now, probably making sure she was alright, being the good, caring friend he always was. His thumb brushed across her cheek, and something violent stirred in my gut. Because she didn't pull away. Of course she didn't. She never did, not with him.

They looked good together, standing there in the dim light. The brilliant researcher and his gifted student. No addiction between them. No sharp edges that sliced you open if you got too close. And I hated that.

I watched as she placed her hand over his, the gesture unbearably tender. Watched as he smiled down at her, that gentle smile he reserved only for her.

And just for a moment — one single, agonizing moment — I let myself picture a world where I hadn't reached her first. Where she'd chosen him instead. The better man. The one who'd never drag her down into his own personal hell.

The thoughts spiraled darker, louder, until I could barely breathe through the noise. Glass creaked under my grip. I needed a fucking pill. Needed something, anything, to make this stop. To make everything just fucking stop.

"Professor?" Miwa’s voice. "You okay?"

More students crowded the bar, blocking my view of them. One of them—what was his name? Third-year, not a complete idiot—shoved another beer into my hand. I chugged it in one long pull, their chatter fading to background noise.

"Well." That voice. That fucking voice. "Look who decided to crash my party after all."

I turned, meeting Naoya's scarred face with a smile that was all teeth and no warmth. "Zenin. Quite the gathering you've got here."

"Indeed." He signaled the bartender. "I gotta say though, I'm surprised to see you here, Professor. Don't tell me you're playing chaperone tonight?"

His words stripped away any pretense. He knew. Of course he fucking knew why I was really here. Not that I'd been particularly subtle about it.

"Just felt like reliving my youth," I said, taking the drink he offered. Anything to keep my hands busy, to keep myself from finishing what I'd started with his face.

Zenin's smirk widened, the scars pulling his flesh into something even uglier. "Ah yes, the good old days. Back when teachers knew their place and didn't go around screwing their students."

The fake smile slid off my face, the glass creaking in my grip as I pictured how easily his windpipe would crumple under my hands. How satisfying it would be to watch that smirk disappear for good.

"Careful, Zenin. Your face is already fucked up enough as is. Would be a damn shame if something happened to what's left of it."

He laughed, the sound grating on my last nerve like nails on a chalkboard. "Always so protective. But tell me, Professor, does she know the real reason you're here? Does she know about the—"

"Enough," I bit out.

"Oh, did I hit a nerve?" His eyes flicked across the room, landing on her. The way he looked at her made my vision bleed red around the edges. "She really is something else, isn't she? Too bad I didn't get a chance to get her alone that night—"

My hand lashed out before I could think, fisting in his collar. The fabric bunched in my grip as I hauled him close enough to see my own fury reflected in his eyes. "You fucking—"

Then Suguru was there, his hand slamming down on the bar between us. Silent, steady—a wall between me and a one-way ticket to unemployment. He didn't say a word, just fixed me with that look. The one I'd explicitly asked for earlier. Stop me before I do something I'll regret.

Fuck, I was really starting to regret that request right about now.

Then I felt her—her touch impossibly gentle as she laid her hand on my bicep, the heat of her skin seeping through my shirt. She leaned in close, "Satoru, can we talk for a minute?"

Her soft plea sliced through the haze, and suddenly I became acutely aware of the deafening silence that had fallen over the room, of the countless eyes boring into us.

I uncurled my fingers from Naoya's collar one by one, even though everything in me screamed to finish what I'd started. To paint the walls with whatever was left of his face. But I couldn't. We both knew. So I stepped back and followed her.

─── ·✧· ───

She led me through the crowd, her fingers still wrapped so gently around my arm. We pushed our way past the prying eyes, down a hallway, until she found what looked like an empty office. Probably belonged to Naoya's father, judging by the dark wood and that rich people smell.

For a moment, we just stood there, neither of us willing to shatter the fragile silence. Moonlight sliced through the blinds, turning everything silver and strange, like we were underwater. Maybe we were. I wasn't sure anymore. Her hand slipped from my arm, and suddenly I felt cold.

I collapsed into the chair behind the desk, the leather groaning under my weight. She stood silhouetted at the window, arms wrapped tight around herself, and I had to look away. Had to focus on something else, because I knew one glance at those eyes and I'd break.

My fingers found the pill on their own. Out of habit, really. Without thinking, I snatched up the silver letter opener next to me and crushed the pill beneath it, watching the powder scatter across the polished wood like fresh snow. I bent down and let the burn fill my nose, sear through my brain, numbing everything in an instant. 

When I looked up, she was staring. Always fucking staring, with eyes that flayed me to the bone. And she did it so effortlessly. Saw through everyone around her with that unnerving precision. Or maybe she saw through everything so clearly because she looked for the very things she wanted to hide from others.

"That's new," she said. Not an accusation. I was glad it wasn't.

"It's faster."

I averted my gaze and sank deeper into the chair, letting my head fall back against the headrest as warmth flooded my veins and the ceiling blurred and shifted above me. And then everything went soft around the edges, like looking through frosted glass.

A long exhale escaped my lips. Finally—fucking finally—the constant noise in my head, all that shit I can't shut up—the love, the hate, the fucking terror of it all—it faded to a whisper. The world got a little quieter, a little less sharp. A little more bearable.

For one perfect moment, I could actually breathe. Could almost convince myself I was in control. That this wasn't killing me. That I could walk away if I had to. That I wasn't fucking terrified of losing her. Of becoming him. Of everything.

I groaned, fingers raking through my hair, pulling, needing the pain. My hands were shaking again. Or maybe they never stopped. I couldn't tell anymore.

"You're angry," she said.

"No shit. What gave it away?" I scrubbed my hands over my face. "You showing up here after I specifically fucking told you not to? Or me nearly rearranging Zenin's face again?"

"Satoru—"

"Don't." I squeezed my eyes shut, fingers yanking at my hair again, trembling worse now. From the drugs, the rage, the fear, who the fuck knew. It all bled together these days. "You have no idea what he'd do. If something happened—" I stopped. Couldn’t continue.

"I'm not alone," she said, like that made a difference. "Maki, Yuta, Toge—they're all with me. We're being careful."

"Careful?" I sat upright, forcing myself to meet her gaze. "There's nothing fucking careful about this! It's reckless! You shouldn't even be—"

"I'm doing this for you—"

"Don't." I cut her off. "Don't make this about me."

"But it is!" She stepped closer, eyes blazing. "What, you expect me to just stand by and watch? While you fall apart?"

"This isn't your problem to fix—"

"Like hell it isn't!" Another step. Her eyes seared into mine. "I can't fucking take it anymore. You're in this mess because of me. Because you protected me that night. So don't you dare tell me this isn't my problem to fix."

I stared at her, something in my chest fracturing. "You think that's why I'm doing this? Because I feel obligated?"

"I think you're trying to protect me, like you always do."

"Then don't make me protect you all the goddamn time!" I shoved up from the chair and braced my hands on the desk. "I beat him within an inch of his life that night. I would've killed him if—" My throat closed around the words. "And I'd do it again. In a fucking heartbeat. That's what scares the shit out of me. What I become when it comes to you."

She went still.

"And if he hurt you again," the words scraped out of me, "I—I don't know what I'd do. So please. Just please don't make me find out."

I said the words I'd been turning over in my head for what felt like eternity. Don't make me find out, don't put yourself in danger, don't break my fucking heart. Which really meant break me all you want, just don't leave. I wouldn't survive it.

Her gaze dropped briefly to my hands, and she said, "You done?" 

Her question threw me. Done? God, this infuriating woman. But then I followed her line of sight and saw my hands clenched into white-knuckled fists around the desk’s edge. I slowly released them, my knuckles cracking in the sudden stillness.

I slumped back into the chair, exhausted, defeated, throwing an arm over my eyes. "God, I fucking hate you." The way she stood there, unflinching, unafraid—it made me insane. "I hate that you make me feel like this—so fucking terrified all the time."

"You don't hate me," she said.

"Sometimes I'm not so sure anymore," I answered.

How does it never get easier, I wondered. Loving her. Needing her. It just cuts deeper, spreads further, until I'm drowning in the ache. Until I can't breathe without feeling it in my lungs. And yeah, I hate her for that sometimes.

I couldn't look at her. I knew she'd be there, unyielding, waiting, enduring everything I threw at her, as she always did. Never breaking. Maybe that's what I hated most.

"You're so fucking stupid," I breathed, but it came out wrong. Too soft. Too much like 'I love you'. Too much like 'Please don't leave.' 

"I think that's mutual." She crossed the room then and leaned against the desk, arms folded over her chest. "I'm sorry I lied to you."

I lowered my arm and looked at her. "No, you're not."

"I am sorry for worrying you," she tried again, and I almost believed her, wishing desperately that she'd never have to worry about anything the way I worry about her. "Go ahead, say it. Tell me how stupid I was to come here. I know you're dying to."

"Why would you think that?"

She kept her eyes fixed on the floor. "Because it's true. I make the wrong choice every fucking time."

I watched her, this brilliant, stubborn woman that I love so much, beating herself up over choices that weren't really choices at all—just impossible situations with no right answers. Like there was ever a right answer. And sometimes she reminded me so much of myself. As if I hadn't spent years doing the same thing, and probably still do.

But seeing her do it—it was like staring into a mirror and seeing not just my reflection, but the reflection of everything I hated about myself.

"I think that's mutual," I echoed her words back to her.

With a heavy sigh, I pushed up from the chair, gripping the edge of the desk for a second. Then I reached for her, hands landing on her hips, tugging her close, needing her close. My lips ghosted over hers. Hesitant. Unsure. When she didn't pull away, I kissed her. My hand came up to cradle her face, thumb skimming her cheekbone as I deepened the kiss.

"Alright, what's the plan?" I murmured against her mouth.

She told me about the locked room upstairs and her plan to get it. So calm. She told it so calm. Like it was that simple. Like this wasn't the most insane thing I'd ever heard. But I knew she'd go through with it no matter what I said.

"You seriously think I'm gonna let you anywhere near him with alcohol involved?"

"No," she said. "I think you're going to help me."

"Times like this, I'm really feeling that age difference between us," I said, but we both heard the resignation in my voice. The moment I'd already lost this fight.

"So you'll help?" she asked, ignoring my comment.

Before she could celebrate her victory, I yanked her closer, fingers twisting in her hair. With a sharp tug, I forced her head back until she had no choice but to meet my gaze, her throat bared. Our eyes locked, and I saw the instant her breath hitched.

"On one condition."

"What's that?"

"When we get home, you're gonna make it up to me for all the stress you've caused. Got it?"

"Is that really how you want to play this?"

"Oh, love, I think we're way past propriety at this point."

A shiver ran through her — one that made me almost smile. I could feel her pulse racing beneath my fingertips, could feel the way she melted into me despite herself. It almost made this whole mess worth it.

"Now then." I pulled back just far enough to look her in the eye. "let's have some fun, shall we?"

─── ·✧· ───

So, here's the fun story about how I ended up playing beer pong with my arch-nemesis (besides Sukuna, that is) against my future lovely wife and some chemistry nerd who wouldn't shut up about covalent bonds. Not exactly the Saturday night I had in mind.

I mean, here I was, standing next to Naoya — yeah, the same guy whose face I'd rearranged a few months back — trying to aim at red plastic cups while you were absolutely wiping the floor with us. Turns out that whole '10 years of grief training in alcoholism over your dead father' wasn't just a cute phrase you threw around. Who would've thought?

But really, trying to out-drink an opioid addict? That's like challenging a fish to a swimming contest. Except the fish is in heavy withdrawal. So like, with no fin. Not my finest analogy. I blame the alcohol. What was my point again?

Anyway. Most annoying part? This chemistry department kid with these wide, bright eyes wouldn't stop talking to you about molecular structures. And you were actually entertaining him. At a party. About electron transfers. Of all the insufferable things.

"So if you consider the aromatic compounds—" he was saying, and I swear on my medical license, I didn't mean for the ball to hit him. And I definitely didn't mean for it to hit him that hard. Pure accident, really. 

The ball bounced off his shoulder, effectively shutting him up. They both turned to look at me. "Molecular restructuring in organic compounds? Really?" I shrugged. "At a party?"

She shot me that look. You know the one. The classic 'I-can't-believe-I'm-sleeping-with-this-idiot' glare. It's become quite familiar these days.

"Trouble in paradise?" Naoya said beside me, and I briefly considered rearranging his face again. For symmetry's sake, of course.

But then she bent over to pick up the ball, and suddenly organic chemistry was the furthest thing from my mind. I definitely shouldn't have let her leave the house in that skirt. Though knowing her, she probably wore it just to torture me. 

"Getting distracted, Professor?" she said, straightening up with that little smile that never fails to make me want to do wildly inappropriate things to her in very public places. She leaned across the table, deliberately tapping one of our cups with her finger, giving me her most innocent eyes. Because apparently, driving me insane was her new favorite pastime.

"Me?" I lifted the red cup she'd tapped to my lips, taking my sweet time with the drink, my eyes never leaving hers. "Never."

And somewhere in the haze of beer and the way she was looking at me, I tried to remember why the hell we were even here. Oh right—something about stealing keys. Real professional operation we've got going here. The medical board would be so proud. Their star surgeon, reduced to playing beer pong as a distraction tactic. 

Naoya's keys were right there on the table, practically screaming to be grabbed. But between her legs in that skirt and the way she kept biting her lip every time she lined up a shot, I found myself giving fewer and fewer shits about saving my career and more about how quickly I could get her alone. Priorities. I clearly had them. Alcohol might have scrambled them a bit, I guess.

I caught a glimpse of Suguru standing off to the side of the beer pong table. He was pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes darting back and forth between me and her like he was watching the world's most stressful tennis match. I really owed him one for putting up with this shit.

Near the chemistry kid, a girl approached who looked a bit like Higurama's intern—though I wasn't entirely sure. She looked different, wearing makeup and dressed up. But that couldn't be her. She'd avoid places with flashing lights because of her epilepsy. I must be seeing things.

Then Naoya, because clearly this shitshow wasn't enough of a disaster already, decided to "level up the process." He snapped his fingers at a passing bartender, and before I could process what the fuck was happening, there was a tray of perfectly lined up tequila shots on the table. Complete with cinnamon and orange slices, because apparently, we're keeping it classy while trying to get my future wife drunk.

"New rule," Naoya announced, his scarred face pulling into what I can only assume was meant to be a grin. "Next shot I sink, you drink both. Beer and tequila."

I glanced over at her, my gut churning. Not from the alcohol—it'd take a hell of a lot more than this to get me there—but from the way she met Naoya's challenge with a nod. That stubborn tilt of her chin that always meant trouble. My palms started to sweat.

Of course, Naoya's ball dropped perfectly into her cup. Because the universe really does have a sick sense of humor.

Watching her reach for both drinks, I found myself wondering what the medical board would be more pissed about — me playing drinking games with students, screwing one of my students, or the fact that I was seriously considering murder. Again.

Then, by some physics-defying miracle or sheer dumb luck, the chemistry kid actually landed a shot. He looked as shocked as the rest of us when the ball plopped into Naoya's cup. But it was her next shot that really got my attention — perfect arc, clean landing, like she'd been doing this her whole damn life.

"Drink up, Professor," she said, but there was something different in her voice.

She reached for the tequila, and then—fuck me—propped one leg up on a nearby beer crate, the motion making her skirt ride up just enough to flash a strip of skin above her tights. Wait. Those weren't tights. Those were fucking stockings.

My brain short-circuited as I realized she'd been walking around all night in stockings. Actual stockings, with what I knew had to be a garter belt hidden under that criminally short skirt. The same spot where she was now deliberately sprinkling cinnamon.

The sight of that exposed sliver of skin between stocking and skirt made my blood boil. When the hell had she even bought those? Had she worn them just for tonight, knowing they'd make me lose my goddamn mind? Was she trying to get herself killed?

Because right now, watching her purposely dust cinnamon on that band of exposed skin, I wasn't sure if I wanted to murder her or fuck her. Probably both. My mouth went dry, and it had fuck-all to do with the alcohol.

"Well?" She tilted her head, all innocence except for that knowing look in her eyes. "Coming to get your tequila?" 

Like she had to ask twice. Yet I hesitated. With all these people watching? What was she playing at? It was reckless, careless, like she was deliberately trying to expose us. It was power play, a challenge. And I knew, that she knew, that I couldn't resist.

A slow smile spread across my face as I sank to one knee before her, the crowd fading into a blur of noise. All that mattered was her—the way her breath hitched as I gripped her calf, the way she tensed as she realized that I made a whole show for her (poor girl didn’t expect that now, did she?)—the feel of her skin on my tongue.

I took my sweet time with the cinnamon, letting my tongue glide over the exposed strip of flesh, feeling her shiver. My teeth grazed her skin, just enough to draw a soft gasp from her lips. If she wanted a show, I'd give her a show. And part of me wanted to shove that skirt higher, to chase that taste of salt and cinnamon further up her thigh until—

Focus. Fucking focus.

I straightened, stepping into her space. She held an orange slice in one hand, the shot glass in the other, and I couldn't help but notice how her pupils had blown wide, how her chest rose and fell just a little faster than normal.

I plucked the orange from her fingers with my teeth, my lips brushing her skin, then took the shot glass, using the movement to press closer, my mouth right by her ear, "What exactly is your plan here?"

"Create distraction," she breathed back.

God help me, but it was working. I was definitely distracted. Whole damn crowd was distracted. And watching her play this game—watching her play me—was probably the hottest and most infuriating thing I'd ever experienced. And I'm pretty sure everyone could see I was hard too.

"You're distracting the wrong audience," I whispered before knocking back the shot.

In the midst of trying to control my homicidal urges over those goddamn stockings, she caught my eye and subtly jerked her head. I turned, making it look like I was just checking something, and spotted them—Zenin, Okkotsu, and Inumaki hovering on the other side of the table behind Naoya, waiting for their chance. 

Right. The keys. The whole reason we were here. I almost forgot.

The game continued, the tension building with each shot. We were down to the last round — winner takes all. That's when she decided to really test my patience.

"Let's make this more interesting," she announced, her voice carrying over the crowd. "Losers jump in the pool." A pause, then because apparently she was hell-bent on giving me a coronary. "No clothes."

"You wouldn’t dare," Naoya scoffed.

"Try me," she replied. 

I shot her a warning look. She subtly chewed on her bottom lip, meeting my gaze with an unnerving calm, perhaps her way of saying everything's gonna be okay. It did little to ease the knot in my stomach.

One shot left. If she made this, Naoya and I would be stripping down for a midnight dip. If she missed—

I tried not to think about her in that pool. Tried not to think about those stockings getting soaked. Tried not to think about murdering every sorry bastard who might lay eyes on her. Either way, this woman was going to be the death of me. If I didn't kill her first.

Naoya landed his shot, fucking prick. I missed mine for obvious reasons. Chemistry kid missed too, leaving everything on her shoulders. The ball left her hand, arcing through the air in what felt like slow motion. It circled the rim, then rolled away.

The crowd went wild. Naoya's victory smirk made me want to punch his face in. I glanced over at her, wondering for a second if she'd missed on purpose. But there was no time for that.

"Well?" Naoya's voice. "I believe the losers owe us a show."

"The game wasn't exactly fair—" I started, but she cut me off.

"Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted, Naoya?" She turned to him, her words sharp. "To see me undress without having to drug me first?"

The crowd went dead silent. Naoya's scarred face contorted into something ugly. "Watch your mouth, little girl. You're not as untouchable as you think."

"And you're pathetic," she spat back, then turned away from him. "At least I get to choose when I undress, right?”

She started walking toward the pool, each step deliberate, commanding. I followed, caught between pride and sheer terror at what she was about to do. At the edge, she turned back to me.

"Don't," I pleaded, but she was already reaching for the hem of her skirt. It fell, revealing the dark lace of her stockings. Then her top followed, and I stepped closer, trying to shield her from the leering eyes.

"This is insane." But my protest died as she stood there in only black lace, and then I saw them—the bruises from the fire still painted across her waist and ribs. Dark purple and yellow marks that hadn't yet faded, cruel reminder of how close I'd come to losing her.

The sight sobered me instantly. Something twisted in my chest, sharp and painful. The bruises I'd carefully tended to, the ones that still made her wince when I changed her bandages—on full display for this crowd of drunk idiots, turned into a spectacle.

"Please," I begged, my voice barely audible. "Don't do this."

She met my gaze, and for a fleeting moment, I thought I’d reached her. But then that smile—the one that sealed my fate—touched her lips. "Sorry, Professor," she whispered, and then she was gone, falling backward into the pool, taking a piece of me with her.

The splash echoed in my ears like a gunshot, and I was already shrugging off my jacket, ready to either dive in after her or use it to cover her when she surfaced. A cold, hard fury settled in my gut. Naoya was going to pay for this.

The crowd roared as she surfaced, her hair plastered to her face, water tracing the curves of her body beneath the soaked lace. Our eyes met across the distance, me standing at the pool's edge, and I didn’t bother to hide my disappointment. Something flickered across her face—regret maybe, or shame—before she looked away.

Hell broke loose. Bodies crashed into the water, sending waves across the pool. Even Naoya stripped off his shirt and dove in, reveling in the attention. The whole party seemed to shift to the pool in a matter of seconds — clothes flying, drinks splashing, the pristine water turning into a churning mess. 

Perfect distraction.

But I barely registered any of it, my world had narrowed to her. I watched as she climbed out, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the concrete, practically sprinting past me, her gaze fixed on the floor, while water dripped from her hair, her skin, the dark lace clinging to her form.

Behind her, the pool had turned into chaos — exactly what she'd planned, I realized. 

I gathered her clothes from where they'd fallen and followed her inside. I caught a glimpse of Okkotsu's quick movements near the discarded clothes by the pool. 

Well played.

─── ·✧· ───

Her dripping form drew curious eyes as we moved through the foyer. Each step felt like a penance—hers for the recklessness, mine for letting it happen. Heads turned, conversations died, the sudden silence punctuated only by the soft drip, drip, drip of water from her hair.

Kento’s face flashed past, but I barely registered him. No doubt he'd give me shit about it at the university later, like he didn't already know something was up with me and her.

I wrapped my jacket around her shivering shoulders, fighting the desperate urge to reach for the opioids hidden in my pocket. Withdrawal, guilt, and fury burned together in my veins, making me want to crawl out of my own skin. 

I stepped in front of her, partly to block all those eyes on her, partly to hide how bad my hands were shaking. None of it was worth it. Not the keys, not avoiding my parents, none of it. How did we end up here? How did I allow things to get to this point?

Upstairs, she dressed quickly, water still dripping from her hair, leaving damp patches on her clothes.

"Are you cold?" 

"I'm okay," she said, avoiding my gaze. 

She was shaking. I could see the goosebumps on her arms. "You're shivering," I said and reached for her, but she pulled away.

“I’m fine, really.”

Despite her words, I pulled her close. She didn't resist this time, tilting her face up to mine. Her eyes were bright, and for a second, I thought she might cry. The world could have been watching, for all I cared. If those tears fell, it would be my undoing.

And then I thought of everything she'd done, everything she'd had to do—for me. My twenty-four-year-old student, forced to protect me from my own damn parents, to beg for my own money. Because I’d hit a guy who tried to hurt her. Why was it all so fucked up?

The high was long gone, leaving this gaping hole. My limbs felt heavy, detached, like they belonged to a stranger, unable to reach out and fix what I’d broken. And we were so far from where we started.

"You're disappointed," she finally said. She wasn't asking.

"We should leave." Because I couldn't bear to watch her sacrifice one more piece of herself for me.

"You can leave."

Before I could say anything back, Zenin came bursting into our corner, Okkotsu and Inumaki right behind her, her eyes all lit up. "That was fucking insane!" she yelled, waving something around—Naoya's keys. "But it worked! I can't believe it actually—" She stopped short, finally noticing the tension between us.

The win felt empty. Yeah, we got what we came for. But what did it cost? Looking at her, still shivering a little in my jacket, I wasn't so sure it was worth it. I was supposed to protect her. Instead, I just kept watching her throw herself in the fire for me. 

Some professor I was. Some man I was.

Strange how winning can feel so much like losing, especially when you realize you're not the one paying the price.

─── ·✧· ───

I stayed outside Naoya's room, playing lookout. At least that's what I told them. Truth was, I couldn't stand being in there, couldn't bear being near her, watching her fight my battles while I was barely holding myself together.

The itch under my skin had spread, making my whole body crawl with invisible insects while she did the dirty work. Even after everything, she was still trying to save me. 

And I was still letting her.

I slid down the wall, my head hitting the floor. How did we end up here? What the fuck were we doing? What the fuck was I doing?

I'm thirty-five years old, for fuck's sake. Why was I acting like a goddamn teenager? I should've stopped her, shouldn't have let her leave the house to begin with, should've been the adult. But instead, I let it happen, standing by and watching where it led. Again.

This whole situation was insane. We were in too deep, and I knew it. But I couldn't seem to find my way out, couldn't seem to stop this trainwreck we were on. It was like I was watching it all happen from outside my own body, powerless to change course.

What kind of man was I? What kind of professor? I was supposed to be her mentor, her… something more. Instead, I was dragging her down with me.

I thought back to that night, the one that started it all. The night I found her in the lab, working late, hunched over her microscope. She looked up at me with those eyes, those damn eyes that seemed to see right through me. And I was lost. I knew it was wrong. I knew I should have walked away. But I didn't. I couldn't. Drawn in. Consumed.

And now, here we were. Trapped in this fucked-up situation of our own making. I wanted to blame her, to say it was all her fault for being so reckless, so damn stubborn. But I knew that wasn't true. I let this happen. I didn’t stop it. But why? 

I could replay the events in my mind, frame by frame, but the crucial moment, the point where I should have intervened, remained a blur. It was as if some part of me had wanted to see where this ended.

Music still drifted up from downstairs, the bass thumping through the walls. It felt wrong, out of place. Like we were in a different world, a fucked-up one, while everyone else was living their normal, happy lives.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block it all out, trying to pretend, just for a moment, that this wasn't happening. That we weren't here. That everything was okay. But it was happening. And I was in it, and I knew I couldn't hold my breath much longer.

My hands wouldn't stop shaking. Kept seeing things in the corners of my vision. Shadows that shouldn't move but did, faces that weren't faces at all. The wallpaper breathed. In and out. In and out. Like a lung.

Stop it. Just stop all of it. Make it stop. But it won't stop, can't stop, because she's in there right now, digging through his things, trying to save me save me save me why won't she just stop trying to save me?

Everything felt wrong, sick, twisted. Too bright and too dark all at once. My skin didn't fit right anymore. Nothing fit right anymore. God, I needed a goddamn fix.

A cough. I pressed my hand against my mouth. When I pulled it away, my palm was red. 

Huh. That's new. 

I stared at the blood, watching it pool in the lines of my hand. It looked wrong somehow, too dark, too thick. The longer I stared, the more it seemed to move strangely, crawling along the creases of my palm.

Was blood supposed to move like that? Like it was alive? Like it was trying to tell me something? I couldn't remember anymore. I couldn't remember a lot of things lately. The blood kept moving, kept spreading. 

Maybe this was it—maybe I was finally losing whatever scraps of sanity I had left, sitting here on a dirty floor watching my own blood drip down my palm.

A part of me wondered if he'd been right all along, that I was becoming him, the very thing I’d always feared. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. I was supposed to be better, different. Not this—huddled on a filthy floor at a college party, watching my blood move as if in psychosis, while she risked everything for me. Again. 

The door handle turned. Shit. I wiped my palm against the dark carpet, smearing the blood into the fibers where it vanished like it was never there. I scrambled to my feet just as they emerged. She moved quickly, shoving something beneath the waistband of her skirt. Before I could speak, she grabbed my arm.

"Let's leave." There was something like panic in her voice. "I'll tell you outside."

I gripped her hand, my own pulse quickening, and we went downstairs and pushed through the mass of drunk students. But then the music cut abruptly, plunging us into a moment of strange silence before panicked voices filled the void. 

"What the hell—?" Okkotsu’s shout cut through the din from behind us.

Then I saw the flashing lights—red and blue strobing through the windows. Fuck. 

"Cops!" Someone shouted, and the whole house erupted into chaos as people scrambled in every direction.

"Everyone freeze!" A voice boomed through the foyer. "Nobody moves!"

We reached the entrance as two officers shouldered their way through the front door. The bigger one looked like he benched trucks for fun, taking up almost the entire doorframe as he planted himself there.

"Listen up!" he bellowed, one meaty hand resting on his belt. "Party's over. Nobody leaves until we check IDs."

Perfect. Just fucking perfect.

I felt her tense beside me, those things hidden in her waistband might as well have been burning her skin. I could practically feel her panic.

"Look, officers." I stepped forward, forcing my voice into something professional. "There seems to be some confusion—"

"No confusion here," Truck-Bencher cut me off, the scar on his lip twisting as he frowned. "Got noise complaints, reports of underage drinking. Everyone stays put."

"I'm faculty at the university. These are my students and they're all over twenty-one. You're wasting everyone's time—"

"Nobody leaves until we say so."

"You really want to process IDs for over two hundred students?"

"You telling me how to do my job?" He shifted closer, chest puffed out despite me having two inches on him.

Withdrawal crawled beneath my skin like insects, each bite feeding the rage that built vertebra by vertebra up my spine. "Depends. Are you actually doing it, or just power tripping?"

"Back the fuck up." His hand dropped to his belt. "Last chance."

I felt her fingers digging into my arm, trying to pull me back. But the rage was a living thing now, burning away anything resembling sense or restraint. "Or what?"

The punch came fast. I dropped, and heard the sickening crack of bone against flesh—not mine. Some poor student next to me. For a heartbeat, everything stopped. Then chaos.

Bodies everywhere. Screaming. Shoving. Radio static cutting through the roar. Her hand in mine as we pushed through the surge. Her friends somewhere behind. Everything blurred. I can't remember when she let go of my hand.

I just remember the scream. Different from the others. Then her voice, "Get her on the ground!" I shoved through the mass of bodies. Saw the girl on the floor. Ice flooded my veins.

I knew that face. Higurama's intern. My patient. My responsibility.

I dropped beside her, my hands shaking so violently I could barely feel them. Her eyes rolled back. Withdrawal made everything too sharp, too bright. I couldn't think. Couldn't—

Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. It was her voice. Fingers gripped my arm. "Satoru, look at me." I met her eyes. Steady. Unnerving. "Focus."

Everything snapped back into place. My phone was in my hand before I realized I'd moved. "This is Dr. Gojo from Jujutsu Medical. Twenty-six-year-old female, epileptic, pre-seizure presentation. We need immediate assistance."

My voice was mechanical, professional. Inside, my mind screamed. Why was she here? Had she been drinking? Were her meds interacting with something? I should know this. Should be better than this. Should be fucking better. 

Nausea rose in my throat and I'd never felt more like a failure in my entire fucking life.

Behind us, the fight continued to rage. A man’s voice bellowed, trying to restore order. Then Suguru was there, kneeling beside her, his hands gentle as he cradled her head. He murmured something, soft and low. The tenderness in his movements caught me off guard. 

"The ambulance is taking too long." His voice cut through everything. Before I could process it, he had her in his arms, head protected against his chest and moved.

─── ·✧· ───

I can't remember how we got to the hospital.

Everything blurred into fragments. Flashing lights, squealing tires, the weight of everything crushing my chest. Each breath scraped like broken glass. My hands wouldn't stop shaking until I swallowed three pills. Maybe four. I lost count.

The fluorescent lights overhead were too bright, too harsh, making my skull feel like it was splitting open. I wanted to crack my head against the wall.

Some part of me was still moving, still speaking in that detached doctor voice — rattling off medical history, medications, possible interactions. Years of training overriding the screaming in my head. But they never trained us for this.

Never trained us for how guilt tastes like acid in your throat while watching your mistakes breathe shallowly on starched white sheets.

They taught us to make clean incisions, to suture arteries, to restart hearts. But not how your own heart would seize when you recognize the face on the floor. Not how your girlfriend’s hands would be steadier than your own worthless trembling ones as you fumbled for your phone, your throat closing around the words "this is my fault", "please" and "I'm sorry."

Didn’t prepare us for withdrawal turning your hands into treacherous strangers while someone seized at your feet. For the shame that festers in your gut as you come down, struggling to remember basic fucking dosages through the need scorching through your veins.

They never warned us how love would carve you open worse than any scalpel, making you both butcher and victim, instrument and incision. Never warned us about loving someone while you’re falling apart. How it feels like drowning in open air, your chest cracked wide and your beating heart wrenched out into daylight, desperate and terrified and somehow still pumping, still fighting, still so fucking afraid.

Higurama's intern lay still now, the steady drip of the IV marking time like a metronome in the silence. I watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest, my mind replaying the medications, the dosages, searching for the mistake I must have made. There had to be one. There was always one.

Perhaps he was right about me after all. Funny how even now, even here, I could still hear his voice so clearly.

"You okay?"

She sat across from me, swallowed by my spare clothes—an old t-shirt and sweatpants that draped loosely on her frame, a blanket draped over her legs. Anything was better than those clothes from before, those fucking stockings I'd personally thrown in the trash.

"Satoru?" she tried again. "You okay?"

I couldn't bring myself to answer.

"Talk me through her meds again," she said, resting her head in her palm. Her eyes, piercing and unwavering, never left my face as she waited.

I rubbed my temples, trying to focus through the exhaustion. "Standard anticonvulsants. Levetiracetam, 500mg twice daily. Added phenytoin after the first seizure." I fell back into my chair, scrubbing my hand over my face. "She couldn't tolerate the Levetiracetam, so I switched to Topiramate, 500mg thrice daily."

She was quiet for a moment. "Side effects?"

"Minor. Tremor in her extremities sometimes, but nothing she couldn't handle. It was working." I paused. "It was supposed to be working."

"EEG results?"

"Showed mild abnormalities. Nothing that would explain a seizure this severe." I scrubbed at my face again, harder this time. "I should have seen it. Should have caught something."

"Satoru." Her voice held that gentle firmness I knew so well. "You did everything right."

"Then why did she seize?" I stood abruptly, the chair screeching against linoleum. I turned away, unable to bear her gentle gaze. Outside, dawn was breaking in shades of grey. No color, no warmth, just an endless stretch of concrete and clouded sky bleeding into each other. "If I did everything right, why is she lying here?"

"Because sometimes that's just how it goes. You know this better than anyone," she said. "Medicine isn't perfect. Neither are we."

My reflection stared back at me, ghostly and distorted in the glass. Dark circles, stubble, hair a fucking mess. A doctor coming down from a high while his patient lay in a hospital bed.

"I should have increased the dosage earlier. Run more tests. I should have—"

"Seen the future?"

"I should have been better."

"You are already the best," she said, but it felt like a lie to me. "But even the best can't control everything."

Higurama's intern stirred slightly in her sleep, and we both fell silent, the moment stretching taut between us. I dragged myself back to the chair, sinking down with my face in my hands.

"You didn't do anything wrong," she whispered, leaning forward to brush a stray strand of hair from the girl's forehead. "Sometimes life just happens, and all we can do is be there to pick up the pieces."

I wanted to believe her. God, how I wanted to. But the truth sat like stones in my stomach.

"I hate this," I whispered.

"I know."

Silence.

"Do you blame yourself?" she asked quietly.

"How can I not?"

Because it's stupid, you know this. I could feel them in my bones, the words forming on her lips before she could speak them. "How did that ever change anything?" I said before she could start.

She leaned back, the chair creaking slightly. "Do you think we are terrible people?" she asked, her voice so soft I almost missed it.

I turned to look at her then, really look at her. Even exhausted and worried, wearing my old clothes, she was still the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. Like a drug I couldn't quit, a high I'd chase until it killed me. 

And what did that say about either of us? That I wanted to crack her open, crawl inside her skin and nestle myself in her marrow? Wanted to consume her, devour her, until there was nothing left but the two of us, fused together in the most depraved way possible?

It was as if we were always meant to find each other. But it was a penance, for both of us.

"I think I am what I am because of you," I finally said.

And it was the truth. She'd molded me, shaped me, just as I'd shaped her. We'd ruined each other for anyone else, stripped away the innocence and left only the filth and grit behind.

Her hand fell from her face, her eyes meeting mine. "And I am what I am because of you."

"Does that scare you?"

"I think one gets used to it."

"Yeah," I said finally, my voice rough. "I guess you do get used to it. Until you don't."

She frowned, but before she could voice something, Suguru stepped inside. 

He said we should leave, and maybe that was for the better anyway, though I couldn't quite shake the feeling that there was an edge to his voice. Anger, perhaps. But I couldn't blame him. Not really.

I grabbed her things, my hand finding its familiar place at the small of her back as we headed for the door. Suguru's voice followed us down the corridor. "What did you find in Zenin's room anyway?" he asked, as if it were something to be discussed in the doorway.

I walked ahead.

I didn't need to hear again about the unconscious women on the Polaroids. 

─── ·✧· ───

Too quiet.

He was never this quiet.

"How bad is it?" I asked, perched on the edge of the exam bed where the paper sheet betrayed every nervous shift of my weight with stupid crinkles. Pale morning light filtered through the blinds, casting thin stripes across the linoleum floor.

I'd coughed up blood again earlier this morning. More than last night. The metallic taste had filled my mouth before I even opened my eyes. I'd stumbled to the bathroom, careful not to wake her—she needed the rest after we spent the whole damn night at the police station.

I stared at the red running down the drain. Way more than there should be. I'd blamed it on stress and alcohol last time. But now? It meant my liver was probably failing faster than I'd thought. Coagulation system breaking down, blood vessels becoming fragile. Textbook end-stage.

I called him then. He was still at the hospital, had slept there while looking after Higurama's intern. His face had gone pale when he saw me walk in. Guess I looked as bad as I felt.

We ran tests. All of them. Blood work, chest X-rays, the works. And now here we are. I watched him reading what I assumed was my death sentence, waiting for him to finally look up, while the clock on the wall ticked away the seconds.

But he kept his eyes fixed on the test results, holding himself with the careful rigidity of someone handling explosives. Another bad sign.

"Suguru."

He exhaled slowly, finally meeting my gaze with eyes that said everything before his mouth could form the words. "You should have started treatment sooner. We talked about this months ago."

"Yeah, yeah, I know." I tried to wave off his concern. "What do the results say?"

His fingers tightened on the papers until the corners creased. "Your liver enzymes are through the roof. AST over 1000, ALT even higher. Bilirubin's climbing while albumin's dropping. Your PT/INR values—" He trailed off, shaking his head. "Your liver is failing, Satoru. Not just damaged anymore—failing."

I let the clinical terms wash over me. The doctor in me understood the implications perfectly. The addict in me wanted to laugh at the irony.

"Well," I said, forcing lightness into my tone, "guess I should have listened to you sooner, huh?"

Suguru's expression hardened. "This isn't a joke. Without immediate intervention—" He caught himself, but I could read the rest in his eyes as clearly as any lab report.

Without immediate intervention, I was dying. Fitting, really. That my body would choose to betray me just when I'd finally found something worth living for.

"How's the withdrawal going?" Suguru asked, setting down the test results.

"Managing." I ran a hand through my hair, trying to ignore how even that simple movement felt like too much effort. "Reduced the hydromorphone gradually. Down to about 5mg now."

"Satoru." His voice carried that familiar note of frustration, the one I'd heard a thousand times before. "You need to stop completely. Not reduce—stop. Your liver can't handle any more strain."

"I'm trying," I snapped, then immediately regretted the harshness. "Sorry. I know you're trying to help."

Suguru pulled up a chair, sitting down with a heavy sigh. "We need to start treatment immediately. The protocol won't be pleasant—high-dose corticosteroids, immunosuppressants, possibly plasmapheresis if things get worse."

"Sounds fun."

"It'll be brutal," he continued, ignoring my sarcasm. "The side effects alone—you'll need to be monitored constantly. Multiple blood draws daily, frequent imaging. And absolutely no narcotics—your liver won't survive it."

I absorbed this, the clinical reality of what lay ahead settling into my bones. "So basically, I get to feel like shit while you stick me with needles and watch me suffer."

"That's about right. But it's either that or start planning your funeral."

"At least you're honest." I attempted a smile that felt more like a grimace. "When do we start?"

"Tomorrow morning. I'll admit you tonight, get you set up in a private room," Suguru said, already reaching for admission forms.

"Monday morning."

He looked up sharply. "What?"

"I have a family dinner on Sunday," I shrugged. "Can't skip it."

"Are you insane?" Suguru's voice rose to fill the small room. "Your liver is failing, Satoru. This isn't something you can postpone for a damn dinner party."

"Monday morning," I repeated firmly. "I gave my word I'd be there."

"Your word won't mean much if you're dead."

"I can manage two more days."

"No, you can't." Suguru slammed the test results down with enough force to make me flinch. Since when is he always so fucking tense? "Your numbers are critical. Every hour we delay treatment increases the risk of complete liver failure."

"Monday."

"For fuck's sake, Satoru—"

"I said Monday. I need to do this, Suguru. Please."

He stared at me for a long moment, jaw clenched so tight I could hear his teeth grinding. Finally, his shoulders slumped.

"Fine. Monday morning, first thing. But if you show any signs of deterioration—any at all—I'm admitting you immediately. And no alcohol at that dinner. Not a single drop."

"Deal."

"I mean it, Satoru."

"I know," I said, trying to inject some levity into the heavy atmosphere. "You can do all sorts of things to me on Monday. Not like I have much on my schedule anyway."

"So Yaga has exempted you?"

"Temporarily relieved of my teaching duties until further notice." I tried to keep my voice light, but the words still choked me. "Apparently, licking your student's leg in public view isn't considered acceptable behavior. Who knew?"

"Everyone would have known that."

"Most people were too drunk to remember anyway, or too busy dealing with the police raid afterwards to care." I shrugged. "Silver lining?"

"This isn't funny. Do you have any idea how serious this is? Your career—"

"My career?" I almost laughed. "In case you missed the memo, my liver's failing. I think my career concerns just got bumped down the priority list."

Suguru fell silent.

"Besides," I added, "maybe it's for the best. Can't exactly teach while going through treatment, can I?"

"Yaga doesn't know about your condition?"

"No, and he's not going to. As far as he's concerned, I'm just taking some time to... reassess my professional boundaries."

"And when he asks why you're not fighting this?"

I sighed. "Let him think what he wants. I've got bigger problems right now."

"Like a family dinner you're insisting on attending despite being on death's door?"

"Exactly." I flashed him a grin, this one a little more genuine despite everything. "See? You're getting it."

"You're impossible."

"That's why you love me."

"That's why I'm going to enjoy sticking you with needles on Monday."

"Kinky."

His expression sobered, eyes searching my face. "You should tell her."

The mere mention of her sent a knife twisting in my gut. "No."

"Satoru—"

"I said no. She has enough to deal with right now. This stays between us."

Suguru shook his head but didn't argue further. He knew me too well to waste his breath.

"I will," I added softly, more to convince myself than him. "When I'm a bit better."

"This will kill her."

"I know."

Silence.

"I'm sorry," I finally managed. "For being an asshole. For everything. And... thanks for coming to the party with me."

"You already apologized."

"I mean it." I met his gaze. "You've always been there, even when I didn't deserve it."

Something shifted in his expression—a flicker of the friendship we'd shared before everything got so complicated. Before I'd dragged us both into this mess.

"Just don't die on me," he said. "I've invested too much time in keeping your stupid ass alive."

I pushed off the bed, steadying myself against the sudden dizziness that threatened to knock me over. "See you Monday."

"You're a stubborn idiot," he called after me. I didn't disagree. 

I stopped at the door, turning back. "Hey, what's going on between you and Higurama's intern anyway?"

Suguru stiffened slightly. "Nothing. Just concerned since she's my patient now too."

I studied him, noting the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze shifted slightly left—his tell when he wasn't being entirely truthful.

"Sure," I said, too exhausted to push it further. "See you Monday."

As I walked away, I wondered if he knew how obvious he was. Then again, who was I to judge? I was hardly an expert at handling matters of the heart.

─── ·✧· ───

I paused outside our apartment door, my hand trembling on the handle. Withdrawal clawed through me, a living thing twisting my gut. Each breath was a struggle, my lungs constricting as if they'd forgotten their purpose. Just breathe, idiot. In, out. You're almost there.

Relief flooded through me the moment I opened the door. Her shoes were there, neatly arranged next to my scattered ones. Her coat on the hook. She was home.

Strange how that simple fact could lift the weight crushing my chest, made breathing a fraction less painful. No matter how bad things were, coming home to her felt like breaking the surface after being underwater too long.

Dog bounded up to greet me, tail whipping back and forth, before darting off toward the bedroom. Smart boy knew exactly where to find her. I kicked off my shoes, let my jacket fall where it would, and followed.

She was there, sprawled across our bed in a sea of papers, bathed in the warm light of the bedside lamp. The sight of her stole what little breath I had left. Hair messily pulled back, drowning in one of my old t-shirts, completely lost in whatever she was reading. Beautiful. It was a beauty that made my heart ache.

Without a word, I crawled onto the bed, dragging myself up until I could rest my head on her stomach. I paused, remembering the bruises on her midsection. But before I could pull back, she gently tugged me closer and I surrendered, resting my head against her warmth. 

I wrapped my arms around her waist and her fingers found my hair instantly, like they belonged there, gentle strokes that made my eyes flutter closed and I thought, this was home. This was peace. Even as my body screamed for relief, even as guilt gnawed at me, here with her, I could almost believe everything would be okay.

"What are you reading?" I mumbled against her shirt, already knowing the answer. Why did she still throw herself into this project? Did it even matter anymore? But I already knew that answer too. Distraction.

"Research papers. For our project." Her fingers never stopped their magic. "Everything okay at the hospital?" I wondered for a second how she knew where I went, but then she said, "Antiseptic smell."

Did I always smell like that? Like the harsh, sterile scent of the hospital? I hated it. Hated how it seemed to cling to my skin no matter how many times I scrubbed my hands raw. Hated the way it reminded me of sickness and death.

I hugged her tighter, breathing in her familiar scent as that was so unlike the clinical smell of the hospital as I crafted the lie. Yeah, everything's fine, I told her. Had to check on something with a patient. Normal stuff, nothing to worry about. Standard procedure.

But even as I spoke, the guilt in my stomach twisted. The truth was, I wasn't sure how much longer I could keep going like this. I could feel myself slipping, losing my grip on the things that mattered most and I couldn't help but wonder if I'd even make it to the end.

If I'd be there to witness the results of our research, to stand by her side as we perhaps do something great. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to drown out the intrusive thoughts, focusing on the feel of her beneath me, the steady rise and fall of her breath.

Her fingers paused momentarily in my hair, and I knew she sensed something off. She always could read me too well. But then she resumed the gentle stroking.

"You'd tell me if something's wrong, right?"

"Of course," I whispered, another lie to add to the growing pile.

I tightened my arms around her waist, as if by holding her close enough, I could somehow make up for my betrayal. As if loving her fiercely enough could somehow balance out the pain I was about to cause her. Monday felt both too far away and not nearly far enough.

Desperate for a distraction, I asked about how it went at the police station. She said it was fine, her friends were with her as they'd needed to clarify their statements, she explained, her fingers still weaving through my hair. Everything had been too hazy right after the party.

She mentioned they needed me to verify my own statement again too. I bit back the urge to say that they'd likely have to come to my hospital bed for that. Instead, I just hummed in response. Whatever it took to make that little shit pay for what he'd done.

"He won't hurt anyone else," she added. "We'll make sure of it."

Something about her struck me as odd. How could she be so unaffected by everything that had happened? Like we didn’t just discover that Zenin Naoya was—

"You're so calm about it." 

"And what would you have me do?"

I didn’t know. Maybe I should be grateful that at least one of us could keep it together. 

I turned my head, pressing a kiss to her palm. I wanted to tell her how proud I was of her, how sorry I was for dragging her into this mess, how I feared the rumors that would follow her through university halls. How fucking terrified I was. How much I loved her. But it all just crowded in my throat, tangled with all the other truths I couldn't voice.

Instead, I just held her tighter. "I'm sorry," I whispered.

"For what?"

I didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Or lie again. I clung to her, as if she were the only thing keeping me from falling apart, pressing my face into her stomach, trying to blur myself into her very being. "Satoru,” she winced, a small sound escaping her lips. "You're hurting me."

"Please," I pleaded, tears pricking at my eyes. “Just… bear it for a moment. Please.” But then, a sudden tickle rose in my throat, and I sat up abruptly, he movement sending the room spinning.

"You okay?" she asked, sitting up as well, her hand cradling her side.

"Yeah," I managed, before another cough clawed its way out. I stood, turning away from her, my hand coming up to cover my mouth. When I pulled it away, blood glistened on my palm.

"Satoru? You sure you're okay?"

"Everything's fine." I curled my fingers into a fist, watching red seep between my knuckles. "Just need some water."

I should call him again. Should probably head to the hospital right now. Every logical part of my brain screamed at me to seek help, to stop this madness before it was too late. 

But Sunday's dinner loomed in my mind. One last chance to fix things with her, to make things right before everything inevitably crumbled around us. Just two more days. I just needed to hold on for two more days and then I could let the chips fall where they may.

Even as blood painted the back of my throat red, I clung to that desperate hope, that foolish notion that I could make this right. I knew I was being stupid. Reckless. Playing Russian roulette with a fully loaded gun. 

But then again, what did it matter anyway?

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

author's note — welcome back, i hope this wasn't too intense, even tho i went through all stages of grief writing this chapter, but i'm quite happy with how it turned out. hope you all survived seeing things through satoru's eyes once more. writing from his perspective is always both challenging and thrilling in some strange way.

quick note, as this is somehow not obvious to some people: i understand that this story deals with controversial topics and might not be everyone’s cup of tea but this is purely fictional work, and i'm just here to enjoy a stupid little hobby. i am not looking for criticism. if the story makes you uncomfortable, feel free to block me and move on.

for those following the spin-off: yes, this chapter runs parallel to remedies and reasons chapter 04 ! if you want to see how certain events played out from a different angle, definitely check out the suguru spin-off.

and i want to thank you all for your incredible support. your comments, messages, and theories continue to blow me away. seeing how deeply you connect with this story and catch all the little details i sprinkle throughout brings me so much joy. your thoughtful analyses and wild speculations make writing this stupid story so much fun !! :''))

also a massive thank you to @/nanamis-baker who beta reads all these chaotic chapters, listens to my rambling about plot points, and talks me down whenever i'm convinced everything i write is terrible <3

& second quick note about the alcohol consumption in this story: while it's serve the narrative of the story, please remember that alcohol is toxic to the body and brain, with no "safe" amount. please be mindful of your health and wellbeing.

next chapter we'll be back to our regular pov as we deal with the aftermath of... well, all of this. until then, take care of yourselves ! and as always, thank you for joining me on this chaotic journey and being patient with my slow updates <3

ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here !

tags — @browrm @panteramarron @starlightanyaaa

@myahfig4 @rosebluod @bloopsstuff @depressedemosantaclaus @nanamis-baker

@tofumiao @shoruio @s3vtrue @rosso-seta @bnha-free-writing

@chiyokoemilia @bonequinhagojo @janbannan @mikkmmmii @yeiena

@coeqi @faustina @glenkiller338 @yenmrtnz @buni-bunnydoll

© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.

[papaya-twinks]

Your smuts are PERFECT. would you write a smut about lando having a sex playlist? I feel like a sex playlist is so lando

mood - l.n

Warnings: Smut, 18+, praise, fingering

Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!reader

A/N - 1. Tyyyy, I’m glad you like my smut, I think I’m getting better each fic! 2. I don’t really have any sex songs so I searched some random ones!

It was a lazy Sunday when you found yourself going through Lando’s bag. He had tossed it carelessly on the couch after his race. You weren’t snooping - just curious.

His bag always seemed to hold little mysteries.

After digging through some race notes and half-eaten energy bars, you found his phone. You smirked. He never hid the password.

You opened the music app, knowing Lando’s playlists were always… interesting.

But this one was different.

The title: "The Mood."

You raised an eyebrow and pressed play. The first song was slow, sultry and sensual. The bass was deep, the rhythm steady, like it was designed to make you feel something.

The next track was just as smooth but with more bite. You scrolled through the rest…and there was definitely an underlying theme here.

Love To Love You Baby - Donna Summers

Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby - Cigarettes After Sex

Superman - Eminem

Sex With Me - Rihanna

Each title seemed to say something more... suggestive. Before you could react, a voice from behind made you jump.

“Caught you, didn’t I?”

You spun around. Lando stood in the doorway, grinning with his signature, wicked little smile.

“Seriously?” you raised an eyebrow. “What is this?”

He stepped closer, his grin widening. “You found my playlist, did ya? It’s for... special things.”

“Snooping isn’t a very nice thing to do, is it, hm?” he asked, stepped forwards, your back pressed to the wall as you held his phone in shaky hands.

“What d’you think it’s for?” Lando asked, his warm breath splaying across your skin as you swallowed the lump in your throat.

“C’mon, let’s hear those thoughts,” he hummed, “is it for…gaming? Fun?”

His eyes were dark, teasing. You weren’t sure if he meant the playlist... or something else entirely.

“Wanna try it out?” he asked, slowly lacing his hand into yours as you nodded, following him upstairs.

“Excited?” he snickered as you pulled your shirt over your head, tossing it to the floor as he pulled you into a deep, passionate kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth.

Your movements were messy. Hands roaming over his body and pulling his joggers down.

“Forgettin’ something,” Lando paused, turning the music on with one hand, using the other to wrap round your neck, pushing you onto the bed as you bounced.

The sultry of ‘Superman’ played as you feverishly pulled your skirt up, legs pushed apart by his long, thick fingers.

Fuck.

You moaned - legs quivering as he sunk his digit into your core, curling it as your silken walls clenched round him, a smirk on his face.

At the same time, your hand came to his cock, slowly pumping him up and down as he groaned. “Such a professional,” he mumbled as you teased his tip.

“Wanna be in you,” he said, reaching for a condom as you nodded.

You were needier than anything, watching how he rolled the rubber all the way down to his shaft somehow making your core drip with need, clit throbbing.

His cock twitched as he pressed his head, an angry shade of red, against your entrance.

“Fuck,” you both moaned in sink as he pushed in, his cock forcing your tight walls apart, your juices making it easier for him to slip into.

“Just like that,” he mumbled, leaning down to press a warm kiss to your neck as you wrapped your legs round his waist, pushing his hips forwards and completely sheathing him inside of you.

“Oh fuck yeah,” Lando groaned, not objecting to your need, his hips immediately moving at a blistering pace.

His harsh, deep strokes reached your g-spot in no time, your moans syncing with the melody of the song in the background, a contrast to the slow, sensual rhythm.

“Fuckin’ love you,” Lando grunted, leaning down to squeeze your breasts in his hand, pulling you in for a messy kiss.

You could do nothing but moan into his mouth as your core tightened round him, your bundle of nerves twitching as you reached a finger down, rubbing soft circles into your skin.

Lando hummed, moving your hand away to replace it with his own, slowly easing more pressure as you cried out, eyes rolling.

“How d’you like the songs then?” Lando asked, a smile on his face.

You nodded, almost limply, to his question, tongue poking from your lips as your core clenched.

Each slam of his hips sent a wave of pleasure to your mind, tits bouncing as you balled your fists in the duvet.

You could feel your orgasm threaten to spill through…and spill through it did.

“F-Fuck, Lando!”.

He only sped up, helping you break the wall as your thighs shook, toes curling with the pressure of the fire in your belly, your mind painfully aware of his where his cock was.

You couldn’t even form what song it was….some Lana Del Ray song about riding someone…god Lando was dirty.

You squeaked again as he slammed into you one last time, the rubber tightening round him as his cum spilled into it.

He panted for a few seconds, the room smelling of nothing but sex and sweat, the sound of your breathing and the songs in the background.

“Fuck,” Lando finally said, helping you stand up.

“Should’ve cummed in you,” he mumbled as you sighed, head on his chest. “Let’s clean up,” you said as he nodded.

“How was it? The music ‘n’ all,” he mumbled, walking you to the bathroom. “I liked it,” you said, “it was hot,”.

“Good,”.

Of course Lando has a sex playlist.

It was so…him.

[mysticmutants]

not a lot, just forever

summary: weddings were never logans thing. the sappy vows, hundreds of people watching two people profess their love for each other— so why was being at jean and scott’s wedding with you affecting him so much?

pairing: logan howlett x reader

word count: 1k

warnings: romcom themes, weddings, possibly ooc!logan

authors note: sooo this is my first fic! I have some plans for a much longer, chaptered fic but figured I should ease myself into this! please go easy on me! any tips or suggestions are welcomed. thank you if you read my loves ౨ৎ

logan had been here so long he began to question where he went wrong in his life to put him here. what primordial being he had wronged to place him where he was— sitting next to you, adjusting uncomfortably in a cheap folding chair. not only were his senses being ambushed, overwhelmed—the guests cheap perfumes, the soft classical music playing in the background, mixing with the chatter of excited guests— but being here with you, was triggering something inside of him. he wasn’t someone that enjoyed weddings. anyone who looked at him even for a fraction of a second could deduce that about him. too gruff, hardened, to enjoy such a sappy environment.

it was anxiety inducing, to say the least. he shifts in his seat, trying not to fidget too much as his eyes flick from you—sitting next to him, raving about how beautiful the venue was, how excited you were for your teammates— to his surroundings.

“not a wedding person, logan?”

you speak softly, eyes raking over his appearance as you note the way his brows pinch together a little more than usual—a telltale sign of what was going on in his mind. he shakes his head in response. “they should’ve just eloped. less hassle.” he mutters gruffly, earning a laugh from you. he feels you lean in, elbowing him gently. “be nice. it’s their big day, you know? a celebration of their love.” you exclaim, a warm grin adorning your plush lips. the sight nearly makes his heart leap out of his chest—yearning for its rightful owner, you. he huffs in response, arms crossed over his broad chest. he wants to stop talking about this, to think about anything other than this god forsaken wedding. at least when he got through the ceremony, there would be alcohol at the reception. you lean in once more, and he can smell your perfume. his breath hitches and he eyes you, hoping you didn’t catch it. “so, I’ll take it you don’t see yourself settling down, cowboy?” you inquire.

not unless it’s with you.

he doesn’t miss the way your eyes drift to his lips, and back up to his eyes, but he does brush it off as him seeing things; chalking it up to his old mind deteriorating. he scoffs, brow raising as he scans the room once more in a feeble attempt to avoid eye contact with you. “settle down? no. people like us rarely get to settle down, darlin’. you know that. wouldn’t want anyone to get tangled in my mess.” he remarks—his way of saying ‘I’m terrified to get close to anyone, for fear of them winding up kidnapped by enemies or worse; waking up with my claws in their stomach—your expression darkens at his words, lips pursed and nostrils flared.

you nod, a sheepish grin curving at your lips. “right, yeah. of course.” you chuckle. “people like us don’t get the chance at a life like that very often. all the more reason to be happy for these two.” you nod, gesturing to scott standing at the altar. “you’ll get it, too.” he grumbles, pulling at the tie on his neck. “any man would be lucky to have you. just a matter of finding the right person.” your eyes linger on him at the mention, before tearing away to gaze up at the altar again.

“well,” you start, sighing, “I don’t think that my person thinks that I’m their person. so I’m sort of at a standstill.” you admit, breathlessly. now you’ve got his attention.

he leans forward, palms on the top of his thighs. “oh? and who might this person be, doll? have you tried telling him how you feel?” he questions, trying—and failing—to come off as subtle. you grin, a small chuckle falling from your lips. “no, but only because I know better. why try when you know the answer, right? I mean.. I’ve tried, I suppose. dropped hints. but I’m beginning to question if he doesn’t realize, or if he doesn’t want to realize, you know?” you turn to him, confused on why he was suddenly so attentive; his anxiety from moments before gone. his brow raises, waiting for you to elaborate. his heart skips a beat as you lean in even closer, breath fanning across his face.

“well, my right person… he doesn’t let people in. not fully. he acts like it’s because he doesn’t care but… i think he’s scared. he wants to be loved so badly, and i can see it. he doesn’t want someone to get hurt because of him. not again.” you speak cautiously, looking at him. really looking at him.

his breath hitches in his throat as he meets your eyes. were you… talking about him? no way. he opens his mouth to speak, to counter, to confess, but he’s cut off by the wedding march beginning to play.

and he’s right back to cursing whatever god he could think of. he can’t help but grin, though, as he stands with all the other guests. his heart beats rapidly in his chest, filling it with warmth.

he turns to watch jean walk down the aisle, anticipating the end of the ceremony—wishing his mutation was to speed up time rather than his adamantium claws. for once, though, it wasn’t because he couldn’t wait to get this over with. to get to the fun part already—the part where he could drink. it was because he couldn’t wait to finally tell you how he felt. to face his fears.

maybe, for once, he didn’t mind weddings so much.

he just hoped the next one would be yours.

[vibelladonna]

✑ 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝒾𝓇 𝓀𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓈 𝜗𝜚 𝓈𝑜𝓁 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

· ─────── ⋆⋅ 🝣 ⋅⋆ ─────── · 

Didn't expect me to write more about Sol, did you? Honestly, I needed to do more research into his character, after all, since I kinda ignored him in the game as soon as Crowe showed up. Like, no wonder he did what he thought he had to do.  

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

I mixed a bit of canon and my headcanons for Crowe and Sol in this one—yep, once again! This time, I kept it focused on just four kinks to keep it short and sweet. I'm still learning about the BDSM community, and honestly, it's been really eye-opening.

A close friend (college roommate: adding on the fact she adores Sol—Sorry not sorry, love) of mine has been super helpful, sharing and explaining things about the BDSM scene to add more depth to my writing.

A lot of my inspiration comes from her, along with the Tumblr fanfic community and the original creator's work. I try to blend what feels true to the characters while throwing in my own twist. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Starting, I’ve noticed that TKATB fans have their unique preferences when it comes to Sol or Crowe.

For example, fans who gravitate toward Sol tend to enjoy the idea of him being dominant—whether it’s being in control of him or just envisioning him taking charge. It’s that mix of power and intensity that gets people excited. You know who you are, you freaks!

On the other hand, fans of Crowe are drawn to his reliability, his deep understanding, and his caring nature. He’s willing to guide you through anything, offering both emotional support and strength. It’s comforting, isn’t it? And yes, I’m a freak too—I get it.

✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

Naturally, I had to start with my man—Jericho, or Crowe, as he's known. He exudes a mysterious, almost savior-like presence, though the details are still unclear. I WANNA KNOW SO BAD.

His style is effortlessly sharp, and his quiet confidence makes him instantly trustworthy. Reliable, steady, and composed, Crowe is the perfect support when life feels overwhelming. His charm is subtle, blending good looks with an alluring personality—irresistible, without ever being flashy. 

Now, let’s address the question: Can you see Crowe as kinky?

At first glance, no. Not. To a stranger, he’s too put together, with not even the faintest hint of anything unconventional beneath the surface. But as you get to know him, that answer begins to shift. Slowly, subtly, he reveals a side of himself that hints at complexity—an edge just beneath his polished exterior. However, don’t expect anything extreme or overtly wild.

What he does reveal is never too much but always just enough to leave you captivated—and maybe, just maybe, a little curious.

✑ Vanilla (Soft Dom…) 

For Crowe preferences! 

He's the ultimate soft, warm partner. Like, you just know he's all about the quiet, comforting vibes. No crazy power dynamics or rough kinks—he's all about that steady, affectionate love. It's Vanilla, but in the best way possible, full of layers. He’s not rushing anything, just enjoying the little things, taking his time, and making sure you feel heard and cherished. 

When you're with him, it's all slow and gentle—he’s not here for intense extremes. His love is patient, thoughtful, and wrapped in warmth. Every touch, every word, is like a soft caress, just so deliberate and tender. 

And honestly? There's no need for anything crazy. Crowe's happy to explore your connection, build that trust, and just savor the passion that grows naturally between you two. It's the kind of love that builds and lingers long after. 

Now… Crowe might be a soft dom—nah he IS A SOFT DOM.

Crowe’s not the type to push you past your limits just for the thrill of it. He’s not into playing mind games or testing how far he can take things. No, Crowe’s power is the quiet kind, the kind that makes you feel safe without even having to try. He knows the real strength is in taking care of someone, not in forcing them into anything they’re not ready for.  

When you’re with him, it’s like he’s always tuned into you, always listening, always aware of exactly what you need. He’s the guy who doesn’t take, but gives—gives you everything he can, with a level of care that’s almost overwhelming. And even though he’s gentle, don’t get it twisted—he’s still a tease. He’s the kind of man who’ll leave marks on your skin, a subtle reminder that you're his. But it's all in the way he leads, in that steady hand that takes yours, guiding you through every little moment.  

There’s nothing loud about Crowe—other than his moans and whining. I SWEAR he has pretty moans.

He doesn’t demand anything and doesn’t rush you, but he has this way of making you feel like you’re the only person in the room. When he touches you, it’s with a confidence that leaves you breathless but also comforted. He’ll press his forehead against yours, his hand guiding yours down to your stomach, just so you can feel his bulge inside you,how much he wants you, how much he’s thinking about you at that moment. 

There’s no need for words—just that connection, that intense eye contact that says everything.  

But yeah, he’ll also let you think you have the upper hand for a minute. Let you believe you’ve got him cornered, like you're finally taking control… only for him to flip the switch, regaining control without you even realizing.  

With Crowe, it’s not about begging or pleading for pleasure—it’s about your happiness, your satisfaction. His version of dominance is the kind that wraps around you like a warm blanket, soft and cozy. He just wants to see you smile, hear you laugh—moan, and whine under him, and know that every moment spent with him is full of happiness.  

So, if you're into a soft dom who values deep emotional connection, tenderness, and affection, Crowe’s your man! He just wants you to trust him, to let go and let him care for you. Let him be there for you in every single way, in every moment. 

And in that, he gives you all the security you’ll ever need.

✑ Praise (giving + receiving)

Crowe is all about Praise, and affection through words. Imagine him pulling you close, whispering in your ear while his fingers gently trace patterns along your skin. 

“You’re such a good girl for me, look at how well you take me, love. That’s my girl, always so ready for me, aren’t you?” His words make you feel safe, wanted, and cherished.

He doesn’t wait for you to ask for reassurance—he gives it freely, letting you know how much he appreciates having you around, and how much he loves seeing you smile. And when it comes to your body? He knows every inch of it like he’s got a personal map of your every curve and spot. He might even joke, “No one will ever know you like I do. I’ve ruined you for everyone else, haven’t I?”

Crowe has this vibe about him, like he’s always hungry to make sure you're feeling amazing, but don’t forget to show him some love, too. He thrives on hearing you praise him, especially when you whisper how much you need him, and how much he’s doing for you. The sound of your voice, the words you say—they get to him, melt him down until his heart's pounding.

Now and then, he’ll pull back, checking in on you, “You okay? Am I pushing you too far?” It’s not just about the rush for him. He wants you to be comfortable, to be in sync with him as he takes you through everything, slow and steady, giving you all that love. “That’s it, you're doing so well,” he’ll say, his voice smooth like syrup, making sure you know you're adored.

But here’s the thing: if you keep praising him, or if you’re the one in control, just wait. Crowe’s mouth? It’ll get filthy. AND I MEAN FILTHY. He can’t help it, don't be mean now...

I mean, you can. You giving him head? Taking his cock deep inside your throat, feeling he's about to cum, then you pulled back, teasing him. He'll say, "Please, my love, you were doing so good on my cock—please, please, keep going, I need that tongue of yours."

One of his favorite things is when you’re so into it that he can just forget what you say and speak directly to you, but in a way that’ll make your body react before your mind even catches up. Like, he’ll whisper, “God, you taste so damn good. Missed me, huh? Just wanna be filled up, don't you?”

His words drip against you, his eyes dark with heat, like he's speaking to your body, not even acknowledging your moans. “Such a good fucking pussy. Always making me feel so damn good. Want me to stuff you full, hm?”

And when it’s all done? Crowe doesn’t just drop it and move on. He’s got aftercare down to an art. He’ll guide you through it, keep you close, making sure you’re okay, settled, and cared for, getting ready to do it all again whenever you’re ready!

✑ Experimentalist

Crowe is the kind of man who never wants to leave any stone unturned, especially when it comes to experiences.

There was something about him that screamed experimentalist—like he needed to try everything, no matter how wild or unconventional. When it came to relationships, he was always up for anything, which meant he'd probably had more relationship experiences than most people you knew. 

His mind is open, impossibly so, and he had an insatiable curiosity that could never be satisfied. He’d never form an opinion on something without diving in and getting his first-hand taste. If there was something new to try, something out-of-the-box—Crowe was there, ready to explore. 

And honestly? He didn’t even need you to ask twice. If you suggested something wild, he’d be all in—his enthusiasm infectious, his curiosity never-ending.

However, he's pretty vanilla when it comes to experimenting, so don't expect him to go TOO hardcore. If there's a kink suited to his taste and he masters it? Oh, Babe, you'll feel it—so much in fact.

Take ropes, for example. Blindfolds? Handcuffs? Oh, he is intrigued. But, again, don’t expect anything brutal. He isn't the type to be into floggers or paddles; no, pain isn't needed for his skills. It is his anticipation. The slow burn of him carefully tying you up, not in a rush, but with the kind of patience that made every moment last longer. 

When his hands hovered over your skin, it wasn’t just touch—it was electric. He’d make sure to linger, let his fingers graze over every inch, just enough to make you shiver, your breath hitching in the air between you. It wasn’t about hurting you, not at all. No, it was all about the build-up—the moment when the ropes or restraints were placed just so, tightening the tension between you both until it was practically unbearable. 

And then? When you finally let go, it was a release so sweet and steady that it left you breathless. No rushing, no quick fixes—just a slow, fulfilling pleasure.

Adding on, Crowe loved the idea of restraint. Whether for fun, for art, or for that extra little spark of excitement, there was something about having you completely at his mercy. 

And if you ever flipped the script? If he was the one getting tied up? Like I said, Crowe will be just as filthy when he lets his guard down. 

✑ Dacryphillia

Okay, hear me out. I know what you’re thinking—"Crowe? He would never hurt me. Why would he want to see me cry?" And I get it, really. This is one of those wild ideas but just stick with me for a second.

You know how he’s all about emotions and deep connections, right? Get it?

He gets this deep fascination with what you feel and show, especially when it’s raw. Here’s where it gets interesting: Dacryphilia. Yeah, I’m talking about that thing where someone gets... well, aroused by tears, by the sound of you sobbing, the whole mess of emotions. 

So, let’s imagine this: You’re begging him, pleading for more. Your face is a mess of emotions, eyes watery, tears rolling down your cheeks. And yeah, he’s gonna ask if you’re okay because that’s the kind of man he is—always checking, always making sure. But if you keep begging for more? Oh, that’s when it gets dangerous. 

Each desperate plea of yours, each tremor in your voice, just fuels this fire inside him, an all-consuming fire. His eyes? They’re practically glowing, deep blue, and locked on you like he's drowning in you, in every little thing you’re feeling.

You can feel him there, so close you can almost taste his breath on your skin. His lips brush against your ear, a soft, teasing whisper sending shivers down your spine. "So desperate for me already, huh? We haven’t even gotten to the fun part yet..." His voice is low, and dangerous, like he’s savoring every second of this.

You know he’s enjoying this. Every inch of him is hooked, and once he has you like this, there’s no going back.

Crowe’s could be teasing you for what feels like hours, driving you wild with a mix of pleasure and frustration. He’s pulled every bit of sensation from you, your body trembling with each orgasm, each touch—until you’re left aching for more. You’ve come undone on his fingers, his tongue, but now, you’re desperate in a way that makes your chest ache. You need him, inside of you, filling you up, but he’s holding back. Just barely, he brushes against you, grinning at the whine that slips from your lips.

His head teases your entrance, and you can’t stop yourself from begging, voice shaky, "Please... Please, please." You repeated. Tears burn at the corners of your eyes, blurring your vision as they fall helplessly. The emptiness without him feels unbearable.

Crowe tilted his head, the smirk on his face practically dripping with playful mockery. “Just please?” He dragged the word out slowly, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Tell me what you want. Can’t do anything unless you say it. What is it you’re begging for?” His hand slid up your stomach, hand pushing lightly as if testing the waters. 

He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear, the playful glint in his eyes shifting into something darker, more calculating. “You want me to fill you up, don’t you?”

His grin stretched wider as you stumbled over your words, desperate and disordered, pleading for more. He could tell you were unraveling, and it only pushed him further, each whimper was like a small victory. 

“You’re falling apart, love,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you what you need... just say the word.” You could barely focus as the desperation built into your chest. His control over you was unnerving, yet exhilarating. The tears on your cheeks were a mix of frustration and need, a silent scream for him. 

“I need you, Crowe. Please...” Your voice was broken, but he was the one who was in control, studying the way you reacted like a willing experiment.

Crowe’s hand lifts gently to your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears streaming down your face. He gives you a soft grin, his voice low and teasing. “Already crying for me, huh?” he murmurs, almost amused. His thumb, slick with your tears, slips past your lips, letting you taste the salty remnants of your emotions. "We’ve just started," he adds, a soft chuckle escaping him. 

Before you can respond, his hips jerk forward, pushing into you with one swift, forceful motion. The shock of it makes your breath catch, and Crowe can’t help but smirk, his eyes glinting with that dangerous, experimental gleam.

Every move, calculated and deliberate, is part of his twisted exploration. And you? You’re the willing subject.

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

Sol is described as a “stinky basement-dwelling yandere”—ngl, this alone made me laugh. He’s a quiet kid, the one who lingered at the edges of every room, observing, never quite fitting in.

Beneath his reserved exterior was a complexity most couldn’t fathom. He’s incredibly smart, with a sharpness that slipped through his words when he spoke, though he rarely bothered to. His talents leaned toward the arts, paintings, and writings.

And yet, at the end of the day, Sol isn’t exactly smooth. He was hopelessly inexperienced when it came to relationships. He gets no bitches, and honestly, he probably doesn’t even try. But in his inexperience is a certain rawness, and once you did get to know him, he’ll flirt or charm you. But before, he just watched and wanted.  

Now, let’s address the question: Can you see Sol as kinky?

Yes, let’s not sugarcoat it—he is kinky asf. Of course, he is. There was no way someone as quiet and repressed as Sol didn’t have a horny side, one he tried to keep buried but couldn’t fully hide due to his love for you. 

✑ Switch (A Pervert…)

Now, about Sol’s... preferences. 

From reading his relationship information card and playing the game. He is a paradox, a Switch in every sense of the word. He didn’t neatly fit into the mold of “always dominant” or “forever submissive.” Oh no, that would be far too mundane for someone like him. He's not a standard yandere people.

Sol is a man of extremes, a “pervert” in the most endearing, shameless sense of the word. He believed in living freely, without the shackles of societal expectations or traditional constraints. Ethics, morality, conventional roles—he’d toss them aside without hesitation if they stood in the way of his desires.   

When he takes the reins as Dominant, Sol is the type to lean into theatrics, pushing boundaries with a devilish grin and that mischievous gleam in his eyes. He had a talent for making the experience unforgettable, for making you feel as though the entire world had melted away, leaving only the two of you. But when the tables turned, when Sol found himself in the more submissive role, he’d throw himself into it with equal fervor. 

He’d challenge you to prove your worth, tease and push until you stepped up to the plate, and then—when you finally did—he’d surrender so completely that it'll feel like a victory worth savoring.  

To Sol, sex and relationships weren’t just about power dynamics or tradition. They were a playground for exploration, a place where the only rule was to follow what felt right. With his “anything goes” mentality, Sol turned every interaction into a kaleidoscope of passion and unpredictability. 

As mentioned, Sol, can’t help himself when it comes to you.

Let’s say he has this thing—Voyeuristic Disorder, to be precise, a fancy word for being a pervert. Dosn't care to see anyone else naked. Only you he wishes to see. He was obsessed with watching you, whether you knew it or not. In public or private, it didn’t matter.

He just liked being there, lurking in the shadows, soaking in every moment. Watching you do the most intimate things, completely unaware that he was there. 

There was something so exhilarating about seeing you—your bare skin, the way you moved, the little things you did when you thought no one was watching. He couldn’t resist. The way your body reacted, the sounds you made when you didn’t know he was there—it was all he needed. 

Deadass, I’m shocked that the creator of the game never added a specific scene where you were taking care of yourself in bed—you freak, oblivious to him sneaking a peek from the window, his hand on his cock, jacking himself off, doing exactly what he does best. Watching. 

He didn’t let societal norms dictate how he expressed himself or who he loved. He was unapologetically himself—messy, chaotic, and a little too intense for most people’s taste. But for those brave enough to step into his world, you, well, if you picked him, that is.

Sol will offer an experience unlike any other: one filled with unrelenting honesty, unbridled passion, and a love that refuses to be anything less than extraordinary.  

✑ Praise (Receiving)

Sol isn't the type of man you’d peg as desperate for validation—at least, not at first glance. His sharp, confident exterior gave the impression of someone who had the world at his feet, who didn’t flinch under pressure or crack beneath judgmental stares. 

But peel back the layers of this supposed nonchalant and cool type of man, and you’d find a truth that was much more human, much more raw. Sol craved praise. Why? Perhaps it was the lack of it throughout his life. His track record for romance was, let’s say, less than impressive. Not because he lacked charm or good looks—he had both in spades—but because his overbearing aura and unapologetic eccentricities tended to drive most people away. 

They didn’t understand him, couldn’t see past the way he challenged conventions. He wore his "loser" title like armor. After all, who cared if he didn’t have admirers lined up at his door? He didn’t need anyone... right? Yet, when someone, such as you, did manage to offer him an honest compliment, something sincere, it was like watching a dam break. 

His confident smirk would falter for a second, his eyes softening, betraying the vulnerability he worked so hard to conceal. Sol wasn’t accustomed to receiving love—real, genuine love—and when it came, it hit him like a truck

✑ Masochist

The first time you noticed Sol’s tendency to endure pain, you’d thought it was just his stubborn nature. He’s always been the type to wear his emotions on his sleeve when it came to you—raw, unfiltered, and unapologetically vulnerable. But as time went on, you began to see something deeper beneath that tough, rebellious exterior. 

Sol wasn’t just someone who endured pain; he seemed to embrace it…? almost thrive on it, especially when it comes to you.

Sol is, without a doubt, a masochist. Not in the twisted, sadistic sense, but in an almost heartbreaking way. He’d do anything to please you, to earn your attention—even if it meant enduring the unendurable. 

He could never be a sadist. No, he loved you too much to ever inflict pain on you, physically or emotionally. The very thought of hurting you would make his stomach churn. Instead, he channeled all his devotion into being by your side, no matter the cost.

There were moments when his tendencies became painfully obvious. Like he gets into fights back to back, defending himself or you—for example, the movie theater bathroom or the Campus library (With or without.)

You hadn’t/have even been there to witness it—Sol hadn’t wanted you to see him like that, bruised and bloody. But when you found out later, he brushed it off with that crooked grin of his, the one that hid just how far he’d go for you. “It’s nothing,” he’d said, wiping the blood from his lip. “They deserved it for talking about you like that.”

Or that time with Crowe. It had been an innocent moment, just you laughing at something Crowe said, but to Sol, it might as well have been a dagger to his chest. He clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white, nails digging into his palms until they drew blood. He didn’t want to feel that way—jealousy mixed with self-loathing—but he couldn’t help it. Watching you walk away with someone else, even for a moment, was unbearable. 

It wasn’t that he enjoyed the pain; it was just that he could handle it, even when it tore him apart inside.  

And in the quiet, intimate moments, Sol’s masochistic streak became something else entirely. If you picked him willingly, He’ll trust you, and loved you, enough to let down every last defense he had. He didn’t just endure pain; with you, he could find meaning in it. 

A sharp bite, nails dragging down his back—he shivered under your touch, his body responding in ways he didn’t fully understand but didn’t question. For him, it wasn’t just about the sensation; it was about the connection, the way it brought him closer to you.  

Masochism, for Sol, wasn’t about pain tolerance. It wasn’t about how much he could take. It was about the way he found a strange, twisted kind of comfort in it. The pain wasn’t the point; it was the context, the giver—you. Sol would never seek out pain for its own sake, but if it was for you, if it meant being close to you, he’d endure anything.  

Even in the game, he seemed to attract hardship like a magnet, always the one taking the hits—physically and emotionally. Whether it was the bullies who thought he was an easy target or the way he seemed to hurt himself just to prove his devotion to you, Sol carried it all with a quiet, unshakable resolve. Because, at the end of the day, it wasn’t about the pain. It was about you.  

And he’d never stop. For Sol, loving you wasn’t just a choice—it was a part of who he was. If being close to you meant enduring the worst the world could throw at him, he’d take it all with a smile. Because that’s who Sol is. A damn masochist.  

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.  

✑ Somnophillia 

It was inevitable, wasn’t it? Everyone could see this coming from a mile away—there was simply no other possibility. Sol, in all his twisted complexity, had long blurred the line between obsession and affection, his love taking on forms most would never dare to comprehend. 

Some might accuse him of holding darker urges, like necrophilia, drawn to the lifelessness of the dead. But no, that isn’t Sol. Despite his obsessions, there was a deep-rooted sentimentality within him—a refusal to let go, to lose. If anything, he had made it clear in his own hauntingly poetic way: he’d rather die with you than live without you. 

Yet, that didn’t mean his desires were any less unnerving. No, Sol’s particular brand of affection manifested in somnophilia, a fascination with the vulnerability of sleep, the beauty of your unconscious form. To him, those moments were sacred—your body relaxed, your mind adrift in dreams. It was when he felt closest to you, unguarded and free from the chaos of the waking world.  

Before your relationship, it started innocuously enough—or so it seemed. He’d find ways to end up at your apartment, invited by some pretense or perhaps even through sheer charisma. And then, ever so subtly, he’d lace your drink with something to make you drowsy, to keep you from suspecting as his fingers ghosted on you. 

You lay there, utterly still, utterly serene, your chest rising and falling with the kind of peaceful rhythm that seemed to still the chaos of the world around you.  

It was maddening, the way you looked so untouched by the noise that haunted him, your lips slightly parted, the barest whisper of breath escaping them. Every exhale was a siren call, soft and unassuming, but it gripped him like a vice.  

His gaze wandered, helplessly drawn down the curve of your cheek to your lips. They looked soft, and inviting in a way that felt almost cruel. He wanted to press his own to them, to taste whatever peace you’d found and see if he could borrow just a fraction of it for himself.  

But it wasn’t just your lips. His eyes traced lower, following the lines of your body, the way your clothes clung to you, hinting at the form beneath. He shouldn’t be thinking like this—he knew he shouldn’t. And yet the thought of you, warm and pliant beneath him, invaded his mind, unrelenting.  

He swallowed hard, trying to shake it off, but the more he fought, the more vivid the thoughts became. The sound of your soft sighs, the way you’d move under his touch, how you’d look at him—not like this, not sleepily and unaware, but awake, wanting.  

God, he was losing it.  

Sol leaned back, running a hand through his hair, forcing his gaze away from you for a moment. But it didn’t matter—your image was burned into his mind, and there was no escape. Watching you sleep was his guilty pleasure, though his guilt barely lasted long enough to stop him from pressing further. 

Once the two of you were together, the dynamics shifted, but only slightly. Sol’s obsession deepened, and the lines of consent became more of a gray haze in his mind. To him, love was devotion—complete and all-encompassing. And if you loved him, shouldn’t you accept him entirely? Shouldn’t you trust him to care for you, even when you weren’t awake to see it? 

He was careful, always so careful with you, so don’t worry! 

His lips found their way to the sensitive curve of your inner thigh, his movements slow and deliberate as if savoring every second of this quiet moment. You stirred faintly, a sleepy whimper escaping your lips as the warmth of his mouth brushed against you, teasing and tender.

Sol’s hands gripped your hips gently but firmly; his fingers splayed across your skin to hold you in place. You tried to shift, your body instinctively responding to the soft, wet pressure of his tongue on your needy cunt, but his strength was unyielding.

“Shh,” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly whisper in the stillness. One hand slid up to brush a stray lock of hair from your face, his thumb lingering for a moment as he marveled at the serene expression you wore, so unaware of the devotion he poured into every touch. “You’re even more beautiful like this,” he breathed, his words an intimate confession meant only for the dark.

To Sol, this meant everything. 

This was the essence of love itself—intimacy beyond words, a bond that transcended anything others could hope to understand. He wasn't like anyone else; he knew that, and perhaps that’s what made this feel so special. So sacred. There was a quiet possessiveness in the way he worshiped you, a deep yearning to etch himself into every corner of your being, to ensure no one else could ever touch the part of you that belonged to him.

And as you stirred again, a soft moan escaping your lips, Sol smirked against your skin, the faintest edge of smug satisfaction curling at the corner of his mouth. You might not fully wake, but you’d feel him—his touch, his adoration, eventually his cock. You’d know, even in sleep, that you were his world.

To be with him, you’d have to accept all of him. Every tender smile, every soft whisper... and every shadowed obsession that came with it. 

· ─────── ⋆⋅ 🝣 ⋅⋆ ─────── · 

[astrofhobia]

Dancing - MaSM

Sun/Moon.

Moon was working in his laboratory, his hands were busy soldering some things, while his body moved to the music playing on the speakers near him. His lips murmured the lyrics of the songs that were played randomly. From time to time he made small trips to obtain tools or materials that were not within reach.

He feels calm, motivated.

Until he heard the humming of the daycare theme along with bells that collided with each other and happy footsteps that seemed to be small jumps.

Sun is here.

The night attendant ignored him, he was really in a good mood right now, he didn't need to be bothered.

Sun got as close as he could, wrapping his arms around Moon from behind, giving him a hug that almost managed to take Moon's feet off the ground. This action caused Moon to drop the soldering iron, damaging the table where he was working a little, of course. , the daytime assistant did not realize his clumsiness and that he almost caused an accident.

Still, Moon didn't push him away.

Moon didn't make much of an effort to get rid of Sun either, he didn't care in the slightest. —Can I know what you are doing here?

Sun let him go. —I just wanted to know where my super duper best friend was! You spend a lot of time here... What are you doing?— Moon could swear he saw Sun's blue pupils turn into perfect stars.

It was pretty to see.

—Gun that shoots fire.

—...A flamethrower?

—No. A gun that shoots fire instead of bullets is different.

Sun blinked. He didn't say anything, he didn't care much anyway, he had only come here to be with Moon.

Sun tried to hug him once more but his counterpart was faster, moving so as not to be caught by the happier one's arms, it was comical to see how Sun hugged the air.

Moon gave a small laugh at that.

And Sun, hypnotized by the other's laughter, couldn't help but put on a silly smile.

They were both idiots.

Some happy idiots.

Then, they went back to their typical routine. Moon went back to working on his projects and Sun looked around the lab once again, as if he didn't know the place by heart and where everything was. He casually picked up a tool that caught his attention and couldn't hurt him in any way. Everyone was in their own world but they were happy to be in the same room, together.

That was until Sun heard the rhythm of a song he knew himself. The rhythm began to spread through his body, starting with a light tap of his feet, then humming between his lips and before he knew it he was singing the song while moving his body to the rhythm of the song.

He seemed happy as he received applause from his huge audience of one. Moon.

Moon put his work aside when Sun stole all his attention, he didn't say anything, he just watched him dance around the laboratory clapping from time to time.

Sun did not miss this detail.

As soon as he noticed that Moon was looking at him he approached, crossed his hands with his bluish ones before pulling him with him to the center of the laboratory. Neither of them were experts at dancing, but spinning together was a good way to improvise.

And that's what they did.

As they spun, they couldn't help but sing the music as loud as they could. —If your little mouth were made of chocolate, if your little mouth were made of chocolate, I would pass it, bat that bat!—they sang in unity.

They both laughed.

They both danced.

They both sang.

Even if they didn't know the slightest idea what they were doing.

But they were happy like that.

Being stupid.

Some fools in love.

The emotion surpassed Sun's limit, without thinking about it, he put his face with one of Moon's cheeks, leaving a kiss followed by another and then another.

Moon let out a light laugh, hugging Sun's waist.

Cute.

[jackoshadows]

It's funny that the same folks who make up nonsense about 'blood supremacy' and 'eugenics' to hate on the Targaryens are obsessed, like really, really obsessed with Sansa calling herself 'the blood of Winterfell' and use that as the reason for their favorite Jonsa crackship and for why Sansa will rule the North.

Having a certain 'blood' is apparently very important for shipping reasons and for why one feudal queen should rule over the peasants and serfs. But it's also Aryan ideology and 'blood supremacy' if other characters uphold their house in the same way.

It's funny that they bring real world ethics into this fictional fantasy world to argue blood supremacy to hate on certain characters and houses while all the time justifying in world Westerosi child abuse, classism, sexism, bullying and ableism as being right because it's the done thing.

In a fantasy world where certain groups of people do have magical powers based on who they are and their bloodline - Targaryens having prophetic dreams and Starks having warging powers - it's funny they are trying to argue that a girl fighting against slavery is the real evil because of her house and her blood and she has to die in violent and painful ways since in her case eugenics and blood purity applies and ALL TARGARYENS MUST BE EXTERMINATED. Except for Jon Snow who weirdly escapes the evilness despite having Targaryen blood because he has the SUPER GOOD SPECIALEST STARK BLOOD that dilutes the evil Targaryen blood. also he's THE BLOOD OF WINTERFELL!.

Here's the deal:

Arya being the only Stark child to have the Stark look IS IMPORTANT TO HER STORY, plays a part in her narrative and foreshadows her future arc.

[I love how stans get triggered when this is brought up in terms of Arya's character and her importance but use it generously to prop up their shitty crackship. Oh, Sansa imagines one of her kids would look like Arya? This means she has children with Jon ❤️❤️❤️]

The Direwolves are important. They are gifts from the Old Gods. Nymeria being a leader of a huge wolf pack is important.

You know, I don’t like to give things away.“ says Martin, a grin spreading across his face. ”But you don’t hang a giant wolf pack on the wall unless you intend to use it.“ - GRRM

“You have five trueborn children,” Jon said. “Three sons, two daughters. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord.”   - Bran, AGoT

Magical powers linked to blood are important in the fictional fantasy world of The Song of Ice and Fire. Especially when they are facing an otherworldy magical existential, apocalyptic threat from beyond the Wall. They need dragons, direwolves, prophetic dreams and magical swords to save the entire realm!

Bran, Arya, Rickon and Jon Snow being wargs who are having wolf dreams and communicating with each other through their direwolves is important.

Arya being her father's child in every way that matters IS IMPORTANT TO HER STORY. Her father literally talks to her through weirwoods and gives her strength and courage. She has learned from him on what it takes to administer Winterfell. These are necessary character building subplots for characters to ultimately end up in leading positions.

Arya being her mother's child and proactively taking charge, being a leader and getting things done in terms of surviving in a man's world is ALSO IMPORTANT TO HER STORY.

Arya has a connection to the North through her father - the North is literally rising up in ADwD to save Ned's precious, valiant little girl - and has a connection to the Riverlands and her mother - the brotherhood without banners.

Characters having certain features because they belong to a house is an important and running theme in the books. It's not just house Targaryen. The Lannisters have a certain look - hence why Ned figures out who Joffrey's father is. The Starks have a certain look - this plays into Catelyn's hatred for Jon because he looks more Stark than Robb which is important in terms of being the future heir considering ALL the Starks who have ruled the North thus far have the Stark look. Hell, the Baratheons having a certain look is what leads Ned Stark to crack the secret of Lannister incest - 'The seed is strong'. Applying real world genetics and biology to a fantasy world is idiotic.

Jon Snow looking like a Stark is important in terms of his secret mystery parentage and who his mother is. His special bond with Arya gains significance considering she looks like Lyanna and that is Jon's mother. Lyanna having the Stark look is important. Sansa looking like Catelyn is the major component of her relationship with Petyr Baelish spanning over 5 books.

GRRM is not randomly writing characters looking a certain way for shits and giggles. These are important, narrative and foreshadowing plot points.

[breakyourrxles]

❥between two breaths (m) | 𝟠

𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭

↳ Sunwoo states the obvious, a heartfelt talk with Hyemi heals, and your favorite little coffee shop isn't only traversed by you, you're soon to find.

There's always worse news waiting around the corner, however.

kim sunwoo x fem!reader (side lee juyeon x reader) — idol!sunwoo, fan/trainee!reader. forced proximity, forbidden love, friends to lovers, angst, slow burn, idolverse-typical themes regarding; dating, image, public perception, etc. happy ending, plot-heavy!! reader thinks she's nonchalant about it but she rly isn't. smut. [6,1k wc ongoing] cws: heavy themes of wanting-but-can't-having, mild jealousy, explicit sexual content, a little alcohol consumption, dancing on the edge of career suicide, poor decision making because of The Wanting.

❥ masterlist | ao3

Sunwoo shrugs, nonchalant about the whole ordeal. "Well, there's more where that came from, but the having no idea part will at least remain intact."

The performance ends in a flurry of screaming fans and dimming bright lights, and the moment MVNE steps backstage, a gathering of staff come forward to help usher you away and back to your green room.

Sweat clings to your brow, your boots are uncomfortable and there is an unfortunately placed pin in your shirt that has long since come undone and sharply jabbed into the skin of your back. The worst of it has come to an end and you're happy to finally be finished with this; unplugging from the spotlight, shedding yourself of multiple layers of performative solace that realistically—could not be further from the truth.

Humorously now, Hyemi and her misdoings sit so far out of your mind that they barely even seem consequential at all. You steal a glance at her as a stylist helps her out of an ill-fitting coat and it takes you a moment to even remember what it was that you had been upset with her about to begin with. Rather, it has less to do with her, and everything to do with someone else who has seemingly made it his life's mission to cement himself at the center of your own.

As if you don't have enough on your plate already.

It replays in your mind over and over and over again, picking out new details in the aftermath as you sift through what recollection you have managed to maintain. Everything had been a blur leading up to that, during it, and immediately thereafter that it is difficult to even pinpoint a particular start or end. There are only choice seconds; hands on bodies and lips on skin, words spoken only loud enough for the other to hear. Hushed insistences to move forward, to take a plunge, to let go. 

Adrenaline is still rushing through you, though it slowly wanes from your body now that you are finally able to take rest. The day has ultimately come to a close with no other schedules and nothing more being asked of you. When you leave, you may have to acknowledge fans with smiles and waves, but that's easy. By far, the most simplistic ask of you made thus far today.

"Put the television on," Nara says, seated beside you. The majority of her attention is put towards unpinning her hair, but her eyes are cast up towards the screen. "They're up soon."

A member of the staff locates the remote, the screen flashes on, and it comes alive with a VCR beginning to play that you can dimly hear from the room you are now locked inside of.

Just as it comes to completion, Woori flops down onto the couch on your other side and with arms crossed, she glances at you from the corner of her eye.

"Is it strange?" she asks.

You look at her but quickly turn back to watch the television ahead. Music begins to play and, for so many reasons, it's a song that you immediately recognize. How could you not, after all.

"A little bit." Uncomfortably shifting in your seat, you attempt to find an answer to the question that does not implicate you to the person sitting on your other side, yet adequately expresses the way that you feel. Tricky. You say, "I think… all of this is still a little strange to me, the added layer only compounds that."

She hums, perhaps little more to say on the topic given your current company.

With so many people crammed by the exit doors, you're beginning to question whether or not idol groups need to have this many members.

It's bad enough when it's only MVNE trying to make their way somewhere, but when your senior group is also in attendance, space is crushingly limited.

Proper greetings and congratulations are shared among the members, mostly in passing and fairly awkward save for the handful of mixtures that have built a good amount of rapport as a result of content or other such commonalities. For the most part it's strange; a bunch of strangers who should not feel so foreign to one another and yet will remain so for what might be the duration of their working relationship together.

Juyeon, however, is not like that with you.

"Good work out there," he says once he finally makes his way through the crowd and towards you. "I was watching from backstage. I'm not going to take any credit, but you looked incredibly smooth. The audience was practically drooling out there."

"You'd never know that we're practically falling apart back here," you say through a disbelieving laugh, but Juyeon is quick to shake his head and wave the words off.

"It's small. It feels big now because you're so fresh out of the gate that everything is going to feel a little bit like it could be the end of the world, but nobody is going to remember this in a few months. It's a hiccup." Juyeon turns to look behind him and as if fate has ordained it, and immediately locks eyes with a passing by Sunwoo. He reaches out, grabs him by the arm, and yanks him over to join in on the conversation. "This guy got popped for allegedly saying he wanted to keep women as pets, and look! We're all fine."

Sunwoo glares at him, gives a sarcastic sort of mocking laugh and says, "You just love bringing that up, don't you?"

"I do, it's top three favorite Sunwoo moments, you should be proud."

You look at Sunwoo and without a second lost, your eyes lock. His face is fairly expressionless and even still, you can manage to find something wicked lingering in the depths.

"I'll leave you two to it then," Juyeon says. The statement is innocuous enough, but the evident subtext is clear.

With such little time standing between now and the stage, a light sheen of sweat still sits atop the skin of his forehead and his hair lies damply stuck against it. Eyeliner is vaguely smudged and the smokey shadows are mostly intact, but settle messily in creases. Unfortunately, your thoughts begin to wander back to a time not entirely unlike this one, and not so long ago, either. 

"Say something nice about me or I'll start making posts online about how you're a terror to the cafe staff."

You reel a little at the remark, your face twisting into something ugly and absurd. "I'm not a terror to the cafe staff! What are you talking about?"

"I know," he admits with ease. "It doesn't have to be true, I'll just start saying things."

Rolling your eyes, you relent to his ridiculous demands. "You looked good tonight, and you almost made me believe you could pull off a tough guy concept during Maverick, which in and of itself is a nearly impossible feat."

"I can pull it off!" Sunwoo whines. This discussion is far from new to the two of you, a thing you have enjoyed tormenting with despite its falsity for a long time now. "Everyone else thinks I look very cool, you're the only one who thinks—"

"That you look like a dweeb? Yes, well, I always have been a little bit ahead of the curve!"

And though this moment is fun and feels good—like the good and simpler days, even—you cannot help but feel as though you are not alone in enjoying it. Rather, you are more than aware that you are surrounded by your peers as the two of you carry on like this, but attention is far from being granted to you.

That is, except for one person who remains incredibly interested in the carrying on of your circumstances with this man in particular.

You look to your side ever so slightly and catch the watching eye of Woori. She does not make a play to hide the fact, and remains firm in her doing so despite being seen. Sunwoo, late on the pickup, finally realizes that your interest has been pulled from him and follows your line of sight to see what all of the fuss is about. He waves with a smile once he spots her.

"Ever get the feeling that we're the headlining act around here?" he mumbles under his breath.

"She has every right to be concerned." You look at him again, far more pointedly now. "Hell, she has no idea how every right she has."

Sunwoo shrugs, nonchalant about the whole ordeal. "Well, there's more where that came from, but the having no idea part will at least remain intact."

"You're insane."

"And you're high strung," Sunwoo says. He turns himself in such a way that his back is towards Woori and he leans down slightly to quietly utter, "But you did like it. I think your whole oooh, no, we can't do this schtick is really starting to lose steam, bestie."

"Yeah! I wonder why that might be!"

"Oh sure, blame me!"

Urgently, you press closer towards him and through playfully gritted teeth but an abject awareness of your surroundings you say, "It is your fault! None of this would be happening if you weren't… Doing things like that!"

He shrugs again, like none of this is of any consequence to him. "You know what's interesting to me about the whole thing?" Sunwoo asks, though the question doesn't particularly seem posed to you. "You've not once just shut it down. I've been waiting—figure, eventually it will come if that's what you want to do—but for some reason it just doesn't seem to be happening! Wonder what that's all about…"

A frown crosses your face, comically large though you cannot see it for yourself, and that makes Sunwoo smile in response. You don't like that, either.

"You don't have to answer, by the way. Up to you. Got to go, see you around… Whenever!"

Sunwoo waves lazily as he moves away from you, smiles brightly once again in Woori's direction, and then he is gone.

Throwing yourself onto bed is something of a ceremony; a small victory, of sorts.

You close your eyes and bask in the afterglow of a successful day. The performance was stellar and despite the mild tension within MVNE, nothing of any real importance has dug itself out of the mud and tarnished the land.

There is, of course, the matter of your phone.

It lies on the floor next to you and you know there is a message waiting there. You haven't looked at it, haven't really needed to on account of the fact that you know precisely who it is that it is coming from. 

Like all the other times, you can't ignore him forever.

Unfortunately, you have decided that there is little more option left to you than to come to terms with the fact of the matter: Sunwoo is dangling the promise of something that you do desire in front of you. Happily waving the potential of a thing that you would love to have right in front of your face and nothing short of now begging you to go ahead and take it. The car ride home had been a long one, full of a reckoning that you've been doing your best to try and ignore, but the more he insists, the harder you are beginning to find it to resist.

And now, you have to wonder how much longer you're going to be able to keep up a charade that all-in-all, appears to be fooling nobody.

Running your palms down your face, you succumb to one thing, at least. You're going to have to look at this text message.

Locating your phone, you swipe the lock screen and don't even bother to look at whatever the notification is intended to tease. You navigate straight to your messages, right to his box, and open it wide with a newfound sense of completely unfounded bravado.

S [01:14]: so i take it that's a no then?

You roll your eyes and begin typing up your response.

You [01:39]: isn't it a bit late for this? we both have work tomorrow you know.

S [01:40]: depending on what's on the agenda, it's actually the perfect time

You [01:40]: don't you have roommates still? if you want to be serious about this then lets seriously talk about the logistics, because they're certainly not making any sense to me!

The comment is a last ditch effort to try and get him to drop the subject. Once again, you recognize that you could just as easily tell him a first and final no and put the entire issue to rest, but you don't, you haven't… and worst of all, you probably won't.

A fun little game that you're playing, thrilling and new until the inevitable day comes that changes the trajectory of everything forever, should you continue.

S [01:41]: not to be crass but do you seriously think no idol in the history of ever has brought someone home to their shared living space to fuck? now who needs to be serious!? i just think it's funny that you won't tell me no. i'd never bring this up ever again! and yet… 🤔

It does cross your mind to throw your phone across the room and be done with this at least for the night, but before you have the opportunity to make a decision either way, you feel the vibration of another message coming through.

However, this time it is a photo, and you are glad to be alone considering the quickness in which you open it, zoom in, and press the device closer to your face.

There is nothing especially crude about it, which makes sense because it really is just far too dangerous for idols in any position of fame to be sending explicit photos through any apps, under pretty much any circumstances. Regardless of that fact, the effect ends up being the same; it's a selfie of him laid up in bed with no shirt on, hair damp and messy from being toweled off not long before, and a sheet pulled up enough that though the majority of his chest is covered—his arms, shoulders and collarbones most certainly are not.

Ironically, it's nothing you haven't seen before. Conceptually, it's not unusual for his group to leave little to the imagination through a plethora of photoshoots or stylistic performance choices. It is, however, the first time that you are the only one meant to see it.

This is so, so bad for you. Perhaps far worse than originally suspected.

Your throat runs dry, heart picking up in pace as you stare at the photo. There are just so many details to it that you can pinpoint in driving you mad, yet you can't seem to decide on which one is doing the most damage. The entire thing is a disaster. Sending even this out is a nightmare just waiting to happen. That is what you tell yourself when attempting to file this away into a folder that doesn't result in you coming to the conclusion that you've made the wrong choice tonight.

Collecting yourself to the best of your ability, you close your eyes, take a deep breath, and then finally reopen them to type out a response before too much time ticks by and your dishevelment is evident.

You [01:44]: are you insane? do you want to blow up your entire career? don't send people photos like this!!!

He begins typing immediately.

S [01:44]: lol yeah i'm sure that's what you're thinking about. and to answer both of your questions. 1) yes. 2) depends, will you come over if i do?

You want to scream. Unfortunately, having to explain that will not do you any favors. 

Ultimately, you break to some degree and begin typing out your reply. You have made your best effort to not acknowledge the elephant in the room with any explicit, direct words. Now? Sunwoo has worn you down and left you with little other choice.

You [01:45]: us fucking is not going to fix you!!!

Barely a second goes by, and he is typing once again.

S [01:45]: oh, i know that. it's going to make us much, much worse. goodnight!

You allow the conversation to come to its conclusion, but with unsteady breaths and a furiously beating heart, that us buries in deep and carves out a new home in your mind.

"Can we talk?"

Truth be told, you anticipated this.

The sound of a knock at the front door and subsequent voice that follows once it opens is easily heard from your bedroom. The apartment that you share is small and offers little privacy under the best of circumstances, but when there are visitors, it is difficult to avoid everyone knowing about it.

Especially when they have come specifically to talk to you.

Laid out on your bed, you glance up. From your view now, Hyemi stands there upside down and awkwardly fidgeting with her hands between the doorframe. Her short bob is unstyled and there's not a spec of makeup to be found on her face. It reminds you of one of those staged apology videos that influencers often give, though you force yourself to remain open-minded and to grant her more grace than that. After all, the two of you are stuck together for an undetermined future time; ought to make the best of it.

"Yeah, sure. Close the door behind you."

Hyemi follows instructions and sits herself down at the furthest edge of your bed, as if worried for any physical wrath that you may end up inflicting. It's a fairly asinine concern, completely unfounded, but you suppose that the two of you simply do not understand one another well enough to come to any such reasonable conclusions.

She stares down at the floor between her feet in silence for a long while, likely gathering her thoughts in relation to all of this. No doubt it has weighed heavily on her mind ever since.

"Well, first I owe you an apology for our trainee days," Hyemi says, voice quiet and a little shaky. "Admittedly, I had hoped to cast a shadow over others in an attempt to shine brighter myself. Not that it excuses my behavior, but we still didn't know how many cuts were going to be done until a final debut line-up was decided. I was just… scared. I wanted to debut so badly." She looks up and towards you finally. "And I wasn't brave enough to come out and be honest about my own past, so I told people about yours. I had seen you at events…"

"I gathered that much," you say. "How else would you have known?"

"I hadn't anticipated that we would both debut. Then, when we did make the cut, I realized I was locked into hiding this for as long as I could because you went with what was, in hindsight, the better route of handling it. We couldn't both just… come out with something like that at the same time."

There is truth within Hyemi's words, without any intention of spinning the fact. You know just as much as anyone else within the realm that the company would not have as plainly stated both facts with the simplicity that they had with yours. One is already a gamble, but two? No matter what, somebody is going to be living in the shadow of a secret. It ended up being her.

Granted, you are far from having escaped it yourself.

She laughs a little bit under her breath. "But I guess it was only a matter of time."

"Stuff like this usually is." Sitting up, you scoot yourself to sit beside her as a small offering of comfort and good will. "At the end of the day though, this just isn't that big of a deal, you know? I know it feels like it, but it's one of those things that's eventually going to pass. People will forget. With enough time, they pretty much always do."

Meeting your eyes, Hyemi gives a small smile and a nod of acceptance. 

"Sometimes… Sometimes I regret ever doing this, as crazy as that sounds," she admits, still picking at her fingernails. "Because I kind of miss that life. A life where no one was watching me and nobody cared about what I was doing. Just a fangirl in a sea of other fangirls, and even worse, I kind of miss him."

"You're still going to see him, just the circumstances will be different now."

"Yeah." A pause comes between the two of you for a moment, and then she asks, "Do you ever miss it? Do you ever feel regret in choosing this rather than just remaining comfortably where you were with him?"

The question catches you completely off guard, but you have no other option than to do everything in your power to not make that fact evident. Anxiety creeps up, your stomach twists, and you try to push away all of the circumstances that have found you as a result of your being here now.

It was easier then, different. However, you are being offered new opportunities that you hadn't really been prior to now. They are dangerous and ill-advised… But do you regret it?

There is a photo sitting in your camera gallery burning a hole in your phone.

"No, I don't. Our relationship is professional and he is kind to me. What more could I really ask for?"

"Yeah, that's true." Hyemi gives another contented nod. "I hope we can put this behind us, and I hope it's the last time that we as a group have to deal with something like this."

You take her hand into your own, and desperately, you hope for that, too.

Early March is still cold, and the wind is biting as it carries down the streets. Your hair whips across your face and the jacket you have on feels as though it is doing little to maintain your warmth. This early in the morning—just barely past seven—the sun has only just begun rising and as a result brings you no comfort, but on the bright side, the cafe that you're standing in front of will.

Their opening hours to the public are from eight, but you suppose this is one of the perks of minor stardom, because you have been invited to come at your leisure before or after; so long as any of the lights are on.

You pull the glass door open, take a single step inside, and then stop dead in your tracks once your sights are set on one of the tables inside.

A coffee, a plate with a half-eaten pastry on it, and a book are sprawled out across the wood. More than any of that, however, is the gentle smile that greets you.

"Oh, hello there," Juyeon says.

"Hi…"

"What? Did you think you were the only person that knows about this place?" He must pick up on your apprehension upon seeing him, an amused cock of his head accompanying the question. "One of my best-kept secrets, if I do say so myself."

The girl working quickly comes out from the back, takes your order, and begins to prepare it. Her awkwardness is evident and likely on account of the both of you being here at the same time. Perhaps a little concerned that she may be intruding on a sort of meeting between idols that she is not meant to be seeing. Her hands are swift and a little twitchy by the time she passes along your items. Admittedly, you're somewhat charmed by that fact.

"Sit," Juyeon says, and you do so.

"I thought this was my place," you say. "Now I have to share it with you?"

Shrugging, Juyeon happily accepts your playful annoyance and says, "I was probably here first."

"They never told me that anyone else from the company came here."

"Of course not, wouldn't be very covert of them." He glances up at you from across the table with his lips hidden behind the mug in hand. Still, you can tell there is a smirk pulling behind it. "I take it you aren't bringing anyone else here then?"

You scowl. "No! Who would I be bringing here?"

"Oh, come on. It's just the two of us here, you don't have to do that," Juyeon says, marking his page before closing his book with finality. "You know exactly who I'm talking about."

"We're just friends."

"Maybe to you." He gives you an incredibly knowing look then and it makes your skin crawl. "He does not want to be just friends. I think you know that."

Yeah, he has made that rather apparent.

Uncomfortable, you shift in your seat and say, "Sunwoo can be a handful, I doubt I have to tell you that." Your eyes catch Juyeon's, and though a part of you is advising against doing so, you cannot help the urge to find out more. You ask, "Has he said anything…?"

"No." The shake of his head is rather firm and believable. "He doesn't talk about you, if that's what you're asking. But I've been in the room and seen the way he acts in relation to you. Anyone that's paying attention would be able to see it. He isn't exactly covert."

You don't know what to say to that, and thus, you do not say anything.

The silence is short-lived, and Juyeon continues on.

"You're not interested? I mean… given the history that's a little surprising."

"Isn't it more complicated than that?" you reply.

"Sure, it's always going to be. That doesn't mean none of us are out here doing private business anyway." Juyeon's eyes narrow suspiciously as he looks at you and he says, "You two are barely even allowed to be in the same room together if there's a camera present, which opens up an interesting realm of possibilities where people who want to look at every single interaction under a microscope are no longer able to. You're… Maybe good at pretending something is nothing, but Sunwoo emphatically is not. It's sort of the dream opening, if you were interested."

"Are you saying I should get… involved, with your bandmate?"

Juyeon shrugs once as if none of this is of any particular interest to him, though the look on his face is evident of the exact opposite. In fact, he is quite enjoying all of this. A man who is delighted to be on the outside looking in.

"You don't want to?" he asks plainly, and it catches you nearly off-guard with the forwardness of it. "I mean, you don't think it could ever become something more than this?"

The whims of honesty take hold of you in that moment, and though you wish to be forthcoming with him, at the last minute, you choose not to be. You swallow down the desire to tell him the truth; that it already has become more than whatever it is that Juyeon sees it as, and that it is hurling itself towards something far more ruinous than even he knows. Juyeon discusses the topic with a sort of lighthearted airiness that you wish you could take on for yourself, but the weight of potential catastrophe has long since gripped you, and does not allow you that kind of peace.

You do your best to steady the shake of your hand, and with your mug pressed to your lips you quietly reply, "No, I think the two of us are better off just as friends."

Walking back to the company building is a short journey that you have long since become accustomed to, but this time, you find yourself wishing it left a little bit more to offer.

Juyeon walks beside you with a cupholder of four in hand—unable to carry more—and tells you that he intends to let whoever it is that shows up on time for practice their first choice of the offering. He tells you how Sunwoo is often late, but always brings a big smile and incredible energy with him no matter what may have caused him to lack a concept of time that day. This is something that, in theory, you already know about him, but due to the differences in your lives you have next to no personal experience with.

The breeze is warmer now and isn't as biting, though small flurries of snow carry within the wind and occasionally catch in Juyeon's black hair. Each time you look up at him to grant him your attention you see more, a pretty contrast that lends to making him all the more striking in your eyes.

You wonder for a moment why it hadn't been him. It is a thought that had come to you more than once during your time as a fan; why one member and not another? Juyeon is talented and kind, gentle and incredibly attentive to his own thoughts and feelings in ways that Sunwoo most certainly does not seem to be. At the very least, Juyeon conveys an adult maturity to him that spans well past his years; wise beyond them, emotionally intelligent and wise beyond his meager decades.

They are different, which is to be expected; and walking with him like this now, you find that difference to be a much welcomed breath of fresh air in your life.

"What do you have today?" Juyeon asks as the two of you round the corner.

"Well, I have a meeting with my manager for some upcoming CF opportunity that I know nothing about, then vocal lessons at eleven, media at one, a photoshoot for press at two, then a small break until four. After that it's—"

"I don't miss the days of being a rookie," he interjects with a pitiful laugh accompanying it.

"Yeah, it's fairly stacked, but we have the comeback right around the corner so it's to be expected." You look up at him, and with a small, quizzical cock of your head you ask, "You really don't miss it? Flying under the radar just a little bit more than you're able to now?"

"That's the trade-off, isn't it? Spend all of your time reaching this point where you finally have some semblance of comfort in your career, where you can finally take a sigh of relief and think this won't all go away when I wake up in the morning, but everything else about the life you once knew? That's gone, and you won't even really remember watching it disappear, either." Juyeon offers a tiny shrug. "Instead of waking up one day and your career is gone, you wake up one day and realize that you don't remember what anything was like outside of this."

"It's hard to imagine that ever being the case. I still don't feel like much is all that different. I'm busier, and I'm aware people are watching every move I make…" Looking around the two of you, people pass you by on the sidewalk without a care in the world. Until you spot a group of three girls perched up across the street with hands covering their mouths and excited notions shared between them. "I guess it just doesn't ever really feel like it's about me yet."

"You know what's funny about Sunwoo?" Juyeon says, balancing the precious cargo in one hand and reaching out for the door to the building in the other. "He's said before that what he really wants to do is just make enough money to be set, and then get out. Leave all of this behind."

"I remember that."

Holding the door open, you walk in ahead of him, and following closely behind he continues on to say, "And I don't doubt that there is a strong part of him that genuinely does feel that way. Sunwoo, more than a lot of us, really does still long for the way things were prior to all of this. He loves it… but you know how he is. A dreamer, romanticizer; I wish I could say the pathetic, lovesick softboy thing was all just an act he puts on for the fans."

"You make him sound a little bit like a liability when you put it like that."

Juyeon laughs and says, "Yeah, well, if it's going to be anyone, it probably would be him."

Looking up, your eyes meet his and the small smile that graces Juyeon's lips as he talks about Sunwoo is heartwarming, to say the least. It's clear to you that there is a lot of love there; built up and fortified throughout many years of hardship and success.

"Not you?" you ask with a hint of jest.

He looks down to you, something cunning sitting just behind the gaze.

"No," he says. "I just wouldn't get caught."

Having reached the elevator, you find it to already be on its way to the bottom floor. It lands with a ding, the shining metal doors slide open, and then standing in front of you is none other than your own, precious leader.

Woori's eyes widen for just a brief moment, a flash of intrigue so quick that you could just as easily miss it had you not been anticipating such a reaction. Regardless, it dissipates and is replaced with a pleasant grin and the typical pleasantries exchanged between senior and junior colleagues.

"I'll be off. At this rate, I'm going to be the one that ends up being late."

The doors close once again with Juyeon behind them, and as the elevator makes its way back up towards a new destination, you can already feel the weight of devious eyes boring a hole into the side of your head.

You close your eyes slowly and take a deep breath that is intended to steady you for whatever it is that is soon to come. "What?"

"Can't say for certain if I would consider this to be a better, or a worse option."

"We just so happened to be at the same coffee shop, it's nothing like that."

"Have you talked to your manager yet today?"

Finally, you open your eyes and turn to face her. "No, I'm about to right now, why?"

Unfortunately, the look that comes across Woori's face then is one that you cannot quite place. A perplexing mixture of amusement, anticipation, and also a little dash of horror. Truth be told, you can't make heads or tales of it, but what you do know is that it does little to bring any sense of comfort to an already taxing day ahead.

One thing you can definitely make from it all though, is her attempt at biting back a smile that is desperately trying to make itself known.

"What? Why are you grinning like that? What's so funny?"

Woori looks around to ensure that nobody in particular is close enough to hear, and then for good measure drags you elsewhere into a quieter, less traveled corner of the wide open entry space.

"We have a schedule tomorrow night."

"Okay…"

"A radio show."

Admittedly, you're not following whatever she is trying to get at. Your eyes widen and you shake your head abruptly, silently demanding that she arrive at the fucking point.

And all that she does is say the same thing over again; slowly this time, and punctuating each and every word. 

It works, but the pieces coming together feels a little bit like taking a freight train straight to the chest.

"Not all of us though," you say, voice urgent and insistent.

"Not all of us," Woori repeats, "but you are."

"Surely it's a mistake, they wouldn't have me… They wouldn't send me to go on his show. It's got to be a mistake."

Woori raises a hand and slams it down atop your shoulder, so much so that it causes you to nearly stumble in your already delirious and confused state. "You, Nara and Jubi," she says, now shaking you comically where you stand. "We're all the guinea pigs around here, and it looks like you're their favorite little piggy!" 

"This isn't experimentation, this is suicidal," you reason, voice laden with exasperation. "I thought we were all in agreement that—"

"It's going to be fine," Woori says. The last word is long and drawn out in ways that might lend one to the assumption that not even she believes what she is saying entirely, but with little other options and no right to refuse the fact; what are either of you meant to do about it? "May I offer some advice?"

Your head is still spinning, and without much of a thought, you simply say yes.

"No making out in the halls. It'll be a bad look, ya know?"

Yeah, great.

[rambles-on-dragon-age]

Tell me you only played the game once and didn't bother to engage with anything going on without telling me. 🙄

I'll respond to that nonsensical drivel in that screen shot under the cut BUT the reason they came onto your post to spew their brainless takes is because hating this game is performative at this point.

There's no reason to just drop it and move on because they crave the attention of hating something popular, of regurgitating the same brainless and nonsensical takes everywhere they can. They were too lazy to engage with what the game offered and just outed themself as such.

I'm also an ADHD'er and was all over the place while playing. I've only played once and look at everything I gleaned from it; imagine what's going to happen when I'm not buzzing on nervous energy and actually get to go through it taking my time and snooping for the small details. This game was genuinely engaging and was like a repeated dopamine hit. Every single detail was built with love and this game screams of lore and worldbuilding in every little piece.

As for that nonsensical drivel in the response screenshotted;;

"The side quests are just going from place to place looking for a note, having a boss fight, rinse and repeat."

You mean like literally every single J/RPG game in existence??? You mean the industry standard?? The thing that has been a staple of RPGs for decades now?? How many of those did we have in Inquisition? I can promise it's at least double what Veilguard gave us. How many in DA2? DAO?

"Every companion quest ends with you having to kill their Generic Big Bad and then make a binary choice for the companion."

Every companion quest mirrors and/or parallels the main story line and themes of the game. The complaint should be that the game is repeatedly beating us over the head with the main themes, but then again it did that and you still missed it apparently.

Every companion quest you've been there with them, as their new employer and then friend, every step of the way. You've seen the build up, the backstory, the stakes, all of it. They TELL YOU that they're too close to the issue and need someone outside of it, ROOK, to help them decide. Do you not have friends? Is that the problem? You don't have friends that help you and then talk you through a decision??' They TELL YOU that they're too close to the issue and need someone outside of it, ROOK, to help them decide. Do you not have friends? Is that the problem? You don't have friends that help you and then talk you through a decision??

"Most of the romances are lacking."

IT'S NOT A GAME ABOUT ROMANCE, IT'S A GAME ABOUT SAVING THE WORLD. The romance is meant to be a little flavor sprinkled on the side!! Play an otome game if you're only here for romance !!!!!

"There's very little conflict between the companions and when they're is they kiss and make up."

This is the first game where you hand select a group of professionals and essentially hire them. This is not a slapdash gang slapped together of whomever was willing to deal with world saving fuckery. Each of the people involved has been with their organization for years or decades and fulfill jobs in a professional capacity. I'm also confused on how repeated death threats counts as "very little conflict". But whatever; you made it clear you didn't really do much in the game so you probably missed the majority of the interpersonal conflicts they had. And yeah. As professionals living in close quarters at the end of the world, I would hope they'd be capable of being adults about it and talk through their problems and learn to live with their differences. Like adults should be able to do.

"Every time a companion is having a problem they get this generic 'I'm here for you' 'thanks rook i feel better now' cutscene."

Do you not... have friends? Do they not have things going on in their lives? In the face of something grave happening, words don't always help. Words won't stop their world from falling apart. Know what does? Knowing someone witnessed their worst and is still willing to stand by them. That if they need a shoulder, that shoulder is there for them. In real life, I've been on both sides of that generic conversation. It makes a difference.

"Every faction is generically good and interchangeable."

Factually incorrect. We even had a whole huge chunk of Davrin's quest to show us the Grey Wardens are actually hiding some really big, really grave secrets. Those are supposed to be some of the premier heroes of the realm. Everything with the Cauldron? Did you skip Davrin's quest? Banter shows that the Crows still torture recruits; they have in-fighting and assassinate their numbers. Lords of Fortune straight up have a murder pit where they throw the bodies of those "willing" combatants. Just because they're trying to show Rook their best face doesn't mean they're all good. You have to pay attention to the stuff in the game, not play with your eyes and ears closed.

"Lucanis is straight up lacking content somehow and got shoved in the pantry when everyone else gets a cool room that changes over time."

You have, again, completely missed the content that was blatantly in the game. Upon asking Lucanis why he's in the pantry and not, you know, in a room in the infinitely generating Lighthouse, he says he feels safe there. There's one entrance/exit so he can't be snuck up on. He can see the food and would know if someone was poisoning him. He's constantly brewing and drinking coffee to stay awake so Spite can't take his body for a walk; he's right there at the source and not walking back and forth to do so. He's also, you know, trying to stay awake so Spite can't take his body for a walk and his comfort level is one that helps him do that. Lucanis has the same amount of content that the other companions have. If you would have paid attention to his characterization as well as what he literally tells you to your face that wouldn't have even been part of the subject.

So I have ADHD right? And my first run of Veilguard took me 83 hours and I know I missed a ton of stuff even though I really tried to slow down and pay attention and read as many codex entries as I could. I’m still finding new stuff on my third run.

So when I see takes that are like “Veilguard is weirdly sexless compared to previous games” then in the same post you say you played 60 hours….like ya, you missed a ton of stuff. Which is fine? But you can’t get mad at the game or the writers for it that’s a you problem.

Or “You can’t talk to the npc’s so I can’t feel empathy for them” when like a) you can b) do you actually care about the people of Thedas like at all? I didn’t need the game to hit me with the empathy stick to care about a world I’ve loved for years. Again, this is a you problem not a writing problem.

Or “They sanitized/Disneyfied the lore.” Ugh.

Not saying you need to play the game again because I don’t care and honestly you don’t deserve it anyways but like if you’re going to say stupid shit at least be able to back it up.

[completeoveranalysis]

Of Yūko's customers, which ones you find most memorable?

Most memorable customers, you say?

I hope you don't mind me using this as an excuse to make an arbitrary list by way of answer. (Arbitrary lists, my beloved...)

Yuuko's Customers In Order Of How Well I Remember Them

(Though I will exclude all the bigger characters for fairness. So, Syaoran, Watanuki, Lava Lamp, Fai, Kurogane, Doumeki, Himawari, Seishirou, Ashura, Tomoyo, etc, etc. Regular xxxHolic customers only!)

10. Birdcage Customer

What was this about? Was he even a customer? We just don't know!

But the thing most memorable about this whole situation is the most pressing question: WHY DO YOU HAVE EVIL WOLVERINE'S SYMBOL ALL OVER YOUR HOME? It's even on his front sign!

WHO ARE YOU?????

9. The Liar

Mostly at the bottom because I can't resist the irony. She's the first big customer we see - but what do we really know about her? Absolutely nothing, because she lied every step of the way!

What can we really remember about someone who never actually told us anything about herself?

Though I guess you could say her ending causes quite an impact.

8. Monkey's Paw Customer

Did I forget this had happened? Perhaps!

She's one of those cases where the cause and effect are so clear that the rest of the cast might as well not even be there - and I think most of her story IS told through scenes entirely from her perspective.

I think the most memorable thing about her is the Sheer Audacity of hunting down a monkey's paw and being convinced that, actually, she already knows what it does so it can't possibly go wrong. Love that for her. Would kill for this confidence.

(Not literally - but she kind of did that also)

7. Ame Warashi

Her impeccable style. Her winning charm. She's an icon.

I had just completely forgotten that she was also a customer at one point.

She makes up for it for being absolutely great in every scene she was in, but what are you going to do in a list based purely on how well I remember the customer part? Woops! My bad!

6. Karasu Tengu

They get huge points for this being a Central Event in the narrative, but also I completely forgot they were in this as customers. The entire plot scenario? Incredible! Character defining! Et cetera!

The actual Karasu Tengu themselves? Woops! I forgot they were there. My fault though!

5. The Computer Addict

I love this one. She's so ahead of the curve that she was addicted to the internet back when you had to be on the pc to use it. Honestly, relatable. I also went through a phase like this as a young teen, so the struggle was real.

Little did we all know that in the present day the accessibility of the internet would be so rampant that she literally wouldn't even need that pc to indulge her habits anymore. Oops!

But that aside Yuuko is peak during this arc and I love everything about it. Especially the fact that Yuuko just hangs out on message boards in her free time? Wonderful information. I can do so much with this.

4. Oops! All Ghosts

Another incredible storyline. The twists are preserved by some sneaky panels from Watanuki's perspective and Yuuko's morally grey approach to the whole situation is wonderful. What if you wanted to get rid of the ghost in your home, only to find out that YOU were the ghost all along? It has the DISTRESS. It has the CONFLICT. It has the TRAGEDY. 10/10

3. Haunted Photo

Another customer with Peak Audacity. Trying to wish away the consequences of your own actions? Committing something awful but being unable to actually look at the proof yourself? The ultimate wish being an anxiety inducing curse that is sure to fail? Love it.

It's also one of those juicy situations where the morality of the situation basically drives itself. The customer causes her own problems and can't actually be saved - and doesn't deserve it either.

And honestly I think CLAMP should get a lot of credit for having the haunting effects of a photograph slowly turning around in a purely static medium. They really pulled that off.

I still love the evil smile in the photograph the last time we see it. PURE memorable.

2. The Twin

WE LOVE HER? WE LOVE HER.

Being consistently cut off and run down and overwritten and slowly clawing your way out of the situation through the sheer desire to be your own person?

And then the answer is a haircut?

It's another glimpse into the side of Yuuko that really does try cut people a good bargain. The wish could have been taken in any number of ways, but Yuuko went for the easiest and most affordable way that would genuinely help the customer actually fix her life on her own. She didn't specifically need supernatural help for this, but it was the route that presented itself, and it was the one that got her the help she needed when she needed it. Very hitsuzen, very relatable, very identifiable storyline that sticks with you.

Just like the final entry!

1. Kohane

Listen do I even need to explain this one.

Kohane is like THE storyline. It's THE example of what it's all about. It's not entirely supernatural in nature but completely heart wrenching. It has Watanuki playing a central role in fixing the problem, setting up for his future (or at least, what I assume it will be). It ties xxxHolic to Tsubasa and hints at a secret tool that will help with someone later.

And it has Kohane! You can't go wrong.

[fragmentedblade]

I think I've become an official HI3 player. I check the HSR leaks hoping for iterations of HI3 characters now

[rouge-the-bat]

this can be because you liked all the starters a lot, or wasnt into any of them for a gen, or whatever other reason.

if you get multiple games in a gen/replay games and choose different starters for each game/playthrough, then you can take into consideration if you had any difficulty deciding who youd have as a starter on your first playthrough.

[aintashes]

working on the timeline on my site this morning ( still a huge wip but i'm proud of how it's turning out so far so here it is ) and just had a giant swell of feelings about my boy, how are y'all today

[sunbedo]

Hey guys. gay rights

[astrxealis]

making myself suffer looking thru ffxiv stuff on tumblr when i could be playing ffxiv rn but i eternally love and miss ffxiv

[noxtivagus]

the whole world of ffxiv is very dear to me

[broke-on-books]

Agshagsg my scooby posts on here are always like two sentences and super vague or whatever and then the tags have like a five paragraph meta essay that gets super off topic and into the impact of evolving media and streaming ahfiadhahehsh

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NOT AGAIN AGH 🙈